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WJT'H 1/1% ■MOTKS AND ■CQKkESmWDE'NCE: BY 




Bt;!: .a ■ tlip _pieasiir.es , e'er I saw, 



i?. D IL X ^O). _ . 



y^A^V?^ -j^n^./B^ ^' 



THE 

COMPLETE 



0ftical an^ '^r0$c Horks 



ROBERT BUMS: 



LIFE, NOTES, AND CORRESPONDENCE: 



A. CUNNINGHAM, Esq., 



#riginal ^tccts from t^e Collection of ^ir ©gtrtoit ^rgbgos, §Hrt. 




NEW YORK: 
PUBLISHED BY S. A. ROLLO & CO., 

No. 29 PARK ROW. 
1859. 



Gift 

•^R. HUTCHfSON. 



^IhtstratinM. 



Frontispiece. Portrait of Burns, 

Vignette Title — " Of a' the Pleasures " . . » to ftiee Title 

Poor Mailie . . " . • • • • 1^1 

Halloween . . ■ . . . « ,114 

The Jolly BEGOAiia ..«••• 128 

The Cotter's Saturday Night . • « . • 140 

Tam o' Shanter •.•**• ^''-' 

John Anderson, my Jo . . . • i • .164 

Willie brewed a Pkck o' Matjt . . . . • 176 

Duncan Gray ....•••• 188 
'' When wild Wars' deadly Blast was Blawj*" . • 200 

AvLD Lang Syne . . . • • • • 212 

Oh let Me in this ane Night . . . . • • 224 

The Vision ...••••• 236 

There was a Lass . ...••• 248 

BlNMOCKBViiJM. • "■•,.,.•• 260 



CnnM0. 



T\k of Enhfrt %m3. 



Initiatory Bemarks • • • • 

Life 

Letter of a Lady to the Dumfries Journal 

on the Character, &c., of Burns 
An Enquiry into the Literary Merits of 

Burns •••••• 



1 

8 

68 



71 



Addenda : — 
Letter of Gilbert Bums to Dr. Carrie 
Second Letter of Gilbert Burns 
Widow, Children, and Brother of 

Bums 

Phrenological Development of Bunu . 



:^nttitfll Wmh nf Enhtrt fonm. 



The Death and Dying Words of Poor 

Mailie 101 

Poor Mailie's Elegy . • • ,102 

Epistle to Davie 102 

Address to the Deil . . . .103 

The Auld Farmer's New- Year Morning 

Salutation to his Auld Mare Maggie 105 
Halloween . , . • . .106 

A Winter Night 108 

Epistle to J. Lapraik • • . .109 
To the Same . . . , : 110 

To William Simpson . • • .111 
Death and Dr. Hornbook . • . J 13 

The Holy Fair 114 

The Ordination 117 

To James Smith 118 

The Jolly Beggars— A Cantata , , 119 
Maa was Made to Mourn . • • 123 
To a Mouse .*.... 124 

The Vision : 124 

The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer 127 

Scotch Drink 129 

Address to the Unco Good . • . 130 
Tarn Samson's Elegy . . • .130 
Despondency . . . • . 131 
The Cotter's Saturday Night . . .132 
To a Mountain Daisy . . • . 134 
Epistle to a Young Friend . . .135 
A Dedication to Gavin Hamiltol, Esq. 136 

A Dream 137 

A Bard's Epitaph . • . . 138 



The Twa Dogs 

Lament . . . • • 

Address to Edinburgh ... 

The Brigs of Ayr 

On Captain Matthew Henderson . 

Tarn O' Shanter .... 

Tragic Fragment . . . « 

Winter, a Dirge .... 

A Prayer under the Pressure of Violeni 

Anguish 

A Prayer on the Prospect of Death 

Stanzas on the same Occasion 

Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux 

The Calf 

The Twa Herds, or the Holy Tulzie 
Holy Willie's Prayer .... 
Epitaph on Holy Willie . 
Epistle to John Gondie of Kilmarnock 
Epistle to John Rankine . . 

Third Epistle to John Lapraik . 
Epistle to the Rev. John M'Math . 
The American War .... 
Second Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poe 

To Ruin 

The First Six Verses of the Ninetieth 

Psalm ...... 

The First Psalm .... 

To a Louse ..... 

The Inventory .... 

A Note to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 
Willie Chalmers .... 



139 
141 

142 
142 
145 
146 
148 
148 

149 
149 
149 
149 
150 
150 
151 
152 
152 
152 
152 
153 
154 
154 
155 

15S 
155 
156 
156 
157 
157 



viii 



CONTENTS. 



Lines Written on a Bank Note . . 158 

To a Kiss 158 

Verses Written under Violent Grief . 158 
Verses Left at a Friend's House where 

the Author Slept one Night . . 158 

To Mr. M'Adam 159 

Lines on Meetinar with Basil, Lord Oaer 159 

Epistle to Major Logan . . . 159 
Lament on Leaving Scotland . . ,160 

On a Scotch Bard .... 160 

AVritten on a Blank Leaf of a Copy of Poems 1 6 1 

The Farewell 161 

To a Haggis 161 

To Miss Logan, with Beattie's Poems . 162 

Extempore in the Court of Session . 162 

To the Guidwife of VVauchope House . 162 
Verses Written under the Portrait of 

Fergusson the Poet . . . 163 

Inscription on the Headstone of Fergusson 163 
Prologue, Spoken by Mr. Woods on his 

Benefit Night 163 

E|)istle to William Creech ... 164 

On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair 165 
On Scaring some Water-Fowl in Loch- 

Turit 165 

The Humble Petition of Bruar Water . 166 

The Hermit 166 

Verses written over the Chimney-piece 

of the Inn at Kenmore, Tavmouth . 167 

Elegy on the Death of Lord Dundas . 167 

Verses written by the Full ofj Fyers . 168 

On Reading of the Death of John M'Leod 163 

On William Smellie . . . . )G8 

Address to Mr. William Tytler . . 168 

A Sketch 169 

To Miss Cruikshanks .... 16J 
An Extempore Effusion, on being Ap- 
pointed to the Excise . . . 169 
To Clarinda, with a Present of a Pair of 

Drinking Glasses . . . .169 

To Clarinda, on his Leaving Edinburgii 16 ) 

Epistle to Hugh Parker ... 170 
Written in Friar's Carse Hermitage, on 

the Banks of Nith .... IVO 

Extempore to Captain Riddel . . 171 
A Mother's Lament . . . .171 

Elesy on the Year 1783 ... 171 
Address to the Tooth-Ache . . .172 

Ode, Sacred to the Memory of Mrs. Oswald 172 

Letter to James Tennant . . . 172 
A Fragment, Inscribed to the Right Hon. 

C. J. Fox 173 

On Seeing a Wounded Hare limp by me, 

which a Fellow had just Shot . 173 

The Kirk's Alarm, a Satire ... 171 
To Dr. Blacklock . . . .175 

Delia 17.3 

Sketch, New-Year's Day ... 175 

Prologue, spoken at the Dumfries Theatre 17u 
Pi'ologue, for Mr. Sutherland's Benefit 

Night, Dumfries 170 

Written to a Gentleman who had sent 

the Poet a New.spaper . . . 177 

Peg Nicholson 177 

ToMvBed 17s 

First JEpistle to Mr. Graham of Fintry . 178 

The Five Carlines 7;i 

Secoi(d Epistle to Mr. Graham of Fintry 180 
On Captain Grose's Peregrinations 

through Scotland . . . .181 



Written in an Envelope, enclosing a 

Letter to Captain Grose . . .182 
Address of Beelzebub to the President of 

the Highland Society . . . 182 

Lament of Mary Queen of Scots . . \s2 

The\Vhistle Is3 

Elegy on Miss Burnet of Monboddo . 181 

Lament for James, Earl of Giencairn . 1-4 

Lines sent to Sir John Whiteford, Bart. 1 85 

Third Epistle to Mr Graham, of Fintry 1 8 ) 

Fourth Epistle to Mr Graham, of Fintry 186 
The Rights of Woman . . . .186 

A Vision 187 

Liberty, a Fragment . . . .187 

To Mr. Maxwell, on his Birth-Day . 187 
On Pastoral Poetry . . . .83 

Sonnet, on Hearing a Thrush Sing . 1 -.8 
The Tree of Liberty . . . .183 

To General Dumourier . . 18) 
Lines sent to a Gentleman whom he had 

Offended 189 

Monody on a Lady Famed for Her Caprice 18 ) 

Epistle from iKsopus to Maria . . 190 

Sonnet on the Death of Captiin Riddel . 191 

Impromtu on Mrs Riddel's Birth-Day 191 

Verses to Miss Grah.im of Fintry . 191 

The Vowels, a I'ale I'M 

Verses to John Rankine . . , 19 J 

On Sensibility 192 

Address Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on 

her Benefit Night . . . . 192 

ToChloris 193 

Address to the S'nade of Thomson . 193 
Ballads on Mr. Heron's Elections, Ballad 

First 193 

Ballad Second, The Elect on . . 193 

Ballad Third, An Excellent New Song . 194 

On Life I9.i 

Inscription for an Altar to Independence 19) 

On the Death of a Favourite Child . . 195 

To Mr. Mitchell • . . . . 196 
Tlie Ruined Maid's Lament . . .196 

The Dean of the Faculty . . . 19o 
Verses on the Destruction of the Woods 

near Drumlanrig 197 

On the Duke of Queensberry . . 197 

Verses to John M'Murdo . . . 197 
On .Mr M'.Murdo, Inscribed on a Pane 

of Glass in his House ... 197 

Impromtu on Willie Stewart . . 198 

To Miss Jessy Le wars . . . 193 
Tibbie, I hae seen the Day . . .198 

Montgomery's Peggy . . . 198 

Bonny Pegsry Alison .... l-'S 

Here's to thy Health, my Bonny Lass 1!I8 

Young Peggy 199 

John Barleycorn 9i 

The Rigs o' Barley .... 200 

The Ploughman 200 

Song composed m August . . . -00 

Yon Wild Mossy Mountains . . . l^Ol 

My Nannie, O 201 

Green Grow the Rashes .... 202 

The Cure for all Care . . . . -0 : 

On Cessnock Banks .... 202 

The Highland Lassie .... 2(i:t 

Powers Celestial ..... 203 

I'rom thee, Eliza . > • . 2 ' i 

iMenie ....... ^03 

The Farewell . . . . 2j1 



I 



CONTENTS. 



IX 



I'iie Braes o' Ballochmyle 

The Lass o' Ballochmyle 

The Gloomy Night is Gathering Fast 

The Banks o' Doon 

The Birks of Aberfeldy . 

I'm owre Young to Marry Yet . 

M'Pherson's Farewell 

How Long and Dreary is the Night 

Here's a Health to Them that's Awa 

Strathallan's Lament . . . 

The Banks of the Devon . 

Braving Angry Winter's Storms 

Jly Peggy's Face .... 

R iving Winds around her Blowing 

Highland Harry .... 

Musing on the "Uoaring Ocean 

Blythe was She .... 

The Gallant Weaver . 

The Blude-red Kose at Yule may Blaw 

A Rose-bud by my Early Walk . 

Bonnie Castle Gordon . . . 

When Januar' Wind . . . 

The Young Highland Rover . . 

Bonnie Ann . . . • 

Blooming Nelly . . . • 

My Bonnie Mary . • • 

Ane Fond Kiss . . . • 

The Smiling Spring 

The Lazy Mist .... 

Of a' tne Airts the Wind can Blaw 

Oh, were I on Parnassus' Hill . 

The Chevallier's Lament . . 

My Heart's in the Highlands . 

John Anderson . . . • 

To JIary in Heaven . • • 

Young jockey .... 

The D.v Returns .... 

Oh, Willie Brew'd 

I Gaed a Wafu' Gate Yestreen . 

The Hanks of Nith 

My Heart is a-breaking, Dear Tittle 

There'll never be Peace 

^leikle thinks my Love . 

How can I be Blythe and Glad . 

I do Confess thou wt sae Fair . 

Hunting Song .... 

What can a Young Lassie . . 

The lionnie Wee Thing . . 

Lovely Davies ..... 

Oh, tor anc-and-twenty, Tarn . 

Kenraure's on and Awa . . . 

Bess and hei Spinning Wheel . 

Oh Luve will Venture in 

In Simmer, when the Hay was Mawn 

Turn again, thou Fair Eliza . 

Willie Wastle .... 

Such a Parcel of Rogues in a Nation 

Song of Death .... 

.'■he's Fair and Pause 

F.ow Gently, Sweet Afton . . 

The LovelyLass of Inverness • 

A red, red Rose .... 

Louis, what Reck I by Thee . > 

The Exciseman .... 

Simcbody ..... 

I'll aye ca' in by yon Town . 

Will thou be my Dearie ? . . 

Oh, Wat ye Wha's in yon Town 

But Lately Seen .... 

Could ought of Song ... 



FXQE 

2iu 
20) 

205 
203 
20.) 
206 
206 
206 
206 
207 
207 
207 
207 
208 
208 
20S 
208 
20x 
209 
209 
209 
209 
2 
210 
2i0 
211 
•v'U 
^'11 
ill 

211 
2li 
2lL> 
212 
213 
213 
213 
213 
213 
■iU 
214 
214 
2\\ 
■J 1 ■) 
21.) 
2.5 
215 
215 
216 
216 
216 
217 
217 
217 
217 



218 
218 
219 
219 
219 
219 
2,!0 
220 
220 
220 
220 
221 
2^1 
221 
221 



Oh, Steer her up ... . 
It was a' for our Rightfu' King . 

Oh, wha is She that Loes me I • 

Caledonia 

Oh, lay thy Loof in Mine, Lasa . 
Anna, thy Charms .... 
Gloomy December . . » • 
Oh, Miilly's meek, Mally's sweet 
Cassillis' Banks .... 
My Lady's Gown, there's Gairs upon't 
The Fete Champetre . . . 
Tlie Dumfries Volunteers . . , 
Oh, wert Thou in the Cault Blast . 
Lo\:ely Polly Stewart .... 
Yestreen I had a Pint o' Wine 
The Lea Rig • • • • • 

Bonnie Lesley .... 

Will ye go to' the Indies, my Mary? . 
.Mv Wile's a Winsome WeeThing . 

Hi-hland Mary 

.Auld Ri)i) Morris .... 

Duncan Gray ..... 

Poort th Caiild .... 

Gila Water ...... 

Lord Gregory ..... 

M iry Morison ..... 

W^mdering Willie .... 

The Soldier's Return . » . • 
15 ylhe hae I been on yon Hill . 

Logan Braes 

Oh, gin my Love were yon Red Rose 

Bonnie Jean 

Meg o' the Mill .... 

O pen the Door to me, oh . . . 

Young Jessie 

.■\ilown winding Nith 1 did Wander 

H:id I a Cave 

Philhs the Fair . . . ^ . 
By Allan Stream I chanc'd to Rove 
Come let me take Thee to my Breast . 
Whistle and I'll Come to you, my Lad 
D.iinty Davie ..... 

Bruce's Address .... 
Behold the Hour .... 

Auld Lang Syne .... 
Where are the Joys ? . . . , 
Thou hast Left me Ever . . . 
Deluded Swain, the Pleasure . . 
Thine I am, my Faithful Fair . 

My Spou-e, Nancy .... 
ThS Banks of Cree .... 
Oa the Seas and Far Away . . 

Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes . . 
She says she Loes me Best of A' . . 
Saw ye my Philly ? . 
How" Long and Dreary is the Night? . 
Let not Woman e'er Comi)laiu 
Sleej)'st thou, or Wak'st thou 
My Chloris, mark how Green the Groves 
It was the Charia;:3g Month of May 
Farewell, thou Stream that Winding 

Flows 

Lassie wi' the Lint-white Locks 

Philly and Willy .... 

Contented wi' Little 

Lan'>t thou Leave me Thus, my Katyl 

For a' That, and a' That , 

My Nannie's Awa .... 

Craigieburn Wood .... 

Ob Lassie, art thou Sleeping yet 



rAoa 
222 
2ii 
2>i 
•Zii 
223 
223 
223 

2.'4 
224 
22 1 
•ii^ 
225 
•iib 
2.6 
2-6 
2.6 
226 
227 
227 
227 
227 
228 
228 
2--8 
223 
229 
22) 
i30 
230 
230 
230 
231 
231 
231 
231 
23 J 

23 i 
232 
233 
233 
u33 
233 
23 1 
:i3l 
234 
234 
234 
2 '5 
•23) 
235 
236 
236 
236 
•2 6 
-.^37 
237 
•--37 
237 

237 
■-38 

2;;8 

i33 
239 
239 
239 
240 
210 



CONTENTS. 



Address to the Woodlark . , 

On Chloris being 111 ... . 

Their Groves o' Sweet Mvrtle 

How Cruel are the Parents . 

"i'was na her Bonnie Ulue Ee was my 

Ruin 

Mark yon Pomp of Costly Fashion * . 
Oh, this is no my Ain Lassie . 
Now Spring has Clad the Grove in Green 
Oh, Bonnie was yon Ilosy Brier . 
Forlorn my Love, no Comfort near 
Hey lor a Lass wi' a I'ochcr . , 

Last May a Braw Wooer ...» 

Fragment 

Jessy 

Fairest Maid on Devon Banks . * , * 

Handsome Nell 

My Father was a Farmer . . . ' 
Up in the Morning Karly . , 

Hey, the Dusty Miller .... 
Robin • . . . 
The Bells of Mauchli'ne ,'.*.' 
Her Flowing Locks .... 

r*]e Sons of Old Killie .... 
The Joyful Widower ... * 
O, Whare did you Get t . . . 
There was a Lass • . , , . 
Landlady, Count the Lawin , , 
Rattlin' Koarin' Willie .... 
Simmer's a Pleasant Time . , . 
My Love she's but a Lassie yet . 
The Captain's Lady . . , 
First when Meggy was my Care . 
There's a Youth in this City . 
Oh aye my Wife she Dang me . 

Eppie Adair 

The Battle of Sheriff-Muir 
The Highland Widow's Lament . 
Whare hae ye Been I . . . 
Theniel Menzie's Bonnie Mary . 
Frae the Friends and Land 1 Love 
Gane is the Day .... 
The Tithcr Morn .... 
Come Boat me o'er to Charlie 
It is na, Jean, thy Bonnie Face 
I hae a Wife o' my Ain . , 

Withsdale's Welcome Home . 
My Collier Laddie . . . 
As I wiis a-Wandering . , , 
Ye Jacobites by Name , . 

Lady Mary Ann .... 
Out over the Forth . . , , 
Jockey's taen the Parting Kiss . 
The Carles o' Dysart . . . 

Lady Onlie 

Young Jamie, Pride of a' the Plain , 
Jennv's a' wat, Poor Body . , 
The Cardin' o't . . . 
I'o thee. Loved Nith . , , 

Sae Far Awa . . . , , 

Wae is my Heart • , , . 
Amang the Trees . . , , 

The Highland Laddie . . . 
Bannocks o' Barley .... 
Kobin Shure in Hairst , . , 
Sweetest Mjiy ..... 
The Las8 of Ecclefechan , , 

Here's a Bottle and an Honest Friend 
On a Ploughman . , . , 
The Weary Pund o' Tow . , , 



PACE 

241 

241 



241 

241 

242 

243 

. 243 

243 

243 

241 

244 

244 

245 

245 

24.J 

14) 

245 

1-46 

246 

210 

2dO 

246 

247 

247 

247 

247 

247 

248 

24 

248 

248 

249 

249 

249 

2i0 

250 

250 

250 

2.0 

251 

iSl 

251 

s;5i 

25i 

252 

25.' 

25.' 

25.' 

253 

253 

253 

253 

'^53 

253 

254 

254 

254 

254 

254 

255 

255 

255 

255 

255 



The Laddies by the Banks o' Nith 

Epigrams, &c 

On Captain Grose . * . 

On a Henpecked Country Squire* . 
Another on his Widow . . . . 
On Elphinstone's Translations of Marl 

tial's Epigrams .... 
On Miss J. Scott, of Ayr . . ' . * 
On an Illiterate Gentleman 
Written under the Picture of Miss 

Burns .... 

"Written on the Window of the' Inn at 

Cirron 

Written on a Pane of Glass in the Inn 

at Moffat 

Fragment 

On Incivility shown him at Invernary 

Highland Hospitality 

Lines on Jliss Kemble .... 

On the Kirk at Lamington . , 

The Solemn League and Covenant 

On a certain Parson's Looks . 

On Seeing the Beautiful Seat of the 

Earl of » » • • . , , 
On the Earl of • • • • , . 

On the Same 

To the Same, on the Author being 

threatened with his resentment . 
On an Empty Fellow .... 
Written on a Pane of Glass, on the 
Occasion of a National Thanksgiving 
The True Loyal Natives . . . 
Inscription on a Goblet , , , 
Extempore on Mr. Syme ... 
To Mr. Syme . . . , , 
The Creed of Poverty .... 
Written in a Lady's Pocket Book . 
To John Taylor . . . . , 
To Miss Fontenelle . , • . 

The Toast 

Excisemen Universal . , 

To Dr. Maxwell, on Miss Jessy Staig's 

recovery ..... 
On Jessy Lewars . . , . . 
Toast to the Same . ^ , , ' 
Epitaph on the Same . , , , 
To the Same • . • , . 
Graces belore Meat • • • . 
Epitaphs • . . . , 
On the Author's Father . , * , 
On a Henpecked Country Squire . 
On a Celebrated Ruling Elder . , 
On a Noisy Polemic .... 

On Wee Johnny 

On John Dove, Innkeeper, Mauchline* 
For Robert Aiken, Esq. ... 
On a Friend . . • , , * 
For Gavin Hamilton ... 

On Wat * 

On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish, 

Fifeshire • . , , 
On Mr. W. Cruikshanks , , * . 
For AVilliam Nicol . . 

On W . . . • ^ • 

On the Same . . .'.*.* 
On Gabriel Richardson, Brewer . , 
On John Busby, Writer, Dumfries 
On the Poet's Daughter . 
On a Picture representing Jacob's 
Dream • . . . . 



rA«i 

255 
25« 
256 
256 
266 

25S 
256 
256 



258 

257 
257 
257 
257 
257 
257 
257 
257 

?57 
257 
257 

257 
253 

258 
258 
26S 
25S 
i58 
258 
25S 
258 
258 
259 
159 

2r9 
2,59 
259 
159 
2^9 
259 
260 
2G0 
160 
260 
260 
260 
160 
260 
260 
260 
S6U 



261 
261 
261 
261 
261 
261 
261 
261 



261 



CONTENTS. 



CnrrB0|innhnrB nf fmm. 



PAGE 

To Mr. John Murdoch, Schoolmaster . v:6d 

To . [An early Love Letter] . :;66 

To the Same »e6 

To the Same • . « • • '<^G7 

To the Same i()8 

To Mr. James Burness, Writer . . 2(ib 

To Mr. James Burness, Montrose . . v.()9 

To the Same a6'J 

To Mr. James Smith, Mauchline . . 270 

To Mr. John Richmond, Edinburgh . i70 
To Mr. John Kennedy . . . .271 

To Mr. llobertMuir, "Kilmarnock . 271 

To Mr. Aiken 271 

To Mr. M'Whinnie, Writer, Ayr . 272 
To Mr. John Kennedy . . . ,272 

To Mr. John Ballantine, of Ayr . . 272 

To Mr. David Brice .... 272 

ToMra. Dunlop, of Dunlop . . 273 

To Mr. John Kicbraond, Edinburgh . 273 

To Mr David Brice, Shoemaker . 273 

To Mr. John Richmond .... 274 

To Mr. Robert Muir, Kilmarnock . 274 

To Mr. John Kennedy .... :;74 

To Mr. Burness, Montrose . • • 274 

To Mr. Robert Aiken .... i-75 

To Mrs. Stewart, of Stair . , . 27G 

In the name of the Nine . , . 27G 

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchline . ;!77 

To John Ballantine, Esq., Banker, Ayr . 277 

To Mr. William Chalmers, Writer, Ayr :.'78 

To Dr. Mackenzie, Mauchline . . 278 

To John Ballantine, Esq. , , . i'78 

To the Earl of Eglinton . , . 279 

To John Ballantine, Esq. • • . 279 

To Mrs. Dunlop 279 

To Dr. Moore 280 

To the Rev. G. Lawrie, Newmills . •,'.■*! 

To James Dalrymple, Esq., Orangefield . 281 

To Dr. Moore zs-^ 

To John Ballantine, Esq. . . . i?82 

To Mr. William Dunbar . . . 28.' 
To the Earl of Glencairn* . . .283 
To Mr. James Candlish, Student in Physic 283 

To , on Fergusson's Headstone . 283 

To the Earl of Buchan ... :i84 

To Mrs. Dunlop ..... 285 

To the Same ...*.. 28o 

To Dr. Moore ..... 28G 

To Mrs. Dunlop i86 

To James Johnson, Editor of the " Scots 

Musical Museum " . . . . 28G 

To the Rev. Dr. Hugh Blair . . . i87 

To William Creech, Esq , Edinburgh . vS? 

To Mr. James Candlish .... 287 

To Mr. Patison, Bookseller, Paisley . s87 
To Mr. W. Nicol, Master of the High 

School, Edinburgh .... 288 

To William Nicol, Esq 288 

To Mr. W. Nicol, Master of the High 

School, Edinburgh .... 288 
To William Cruikshank, St. James's 

Square, Edinburgh .... 289 

To Mr. John Richmond .... 289 

To Robert Ainslie, Esq. . . . i90 

To the Same •..«.. '^90 



To Mr. Robert Muir . , 

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 

To Mr. Walker,"of Blair Atholo 

To Mr. Gilbert Burns . 

To Miss Margaret Chalmers 

To the Rev. John Skinner 

To James Hoy, 'Esq., Gordon Castio 

To tlie Same 

To Hubert Ainslie, Esq , Edinburgh 

To ihe Earl of Glencairn 

To ClKirles Hay, Esq., Advocate 

To Miss M N. . 

To Miss Chalmers . . 
To the Same . • . « 
To the Same .... 
To the Same .... 
To Sir John Whitefoord . 
Miss Margaret Chalmers . 

To Miss Williams, on reading her 
To Mr. Richard Brown, Irvine 
To Mr. Gavin Hamilton . , 
To Clarii.da .... 
To tlie Same • • . . 
To the Same .... 
'I'o the Same .... 
To the Same .... 
To tlie Same .... 
To the Same .... 
To tlic Same • . • . 
To the Same .... 
To the Same .... 
To Mrs Dunlop . . . 
To Chirinda .... 
To the Same .... 
To the Same .... 
To the Same .... 
To the Same .... 
To the Same .... 
To the Same .... 
To tlic Same .... 
To the Same .... 
To .Mrs Dunlop ... 
To Clarinda .... 
To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry 
T J tlie Rev. John Skinner 
To Richard Brown . . 
To Mrs. Rose, cf Kilravock 
To Clarinda .... 
To Miss Chalmers . . 
To Richard .Brown . . 
To Miss Ciislmcrs . . 
To Clarinda 

To Mr. William Cruikshank 
To Robert Ainslie, Esq. 
To Clarinda . . , 
To Richard Brown . . 
To Mr. Muir . . • 
To Clarinda ... 

To Miss . 

To Miss Cha mers . . 

To Mrs. Di/nlop . . 

To Richard Brown . . 

To Mr. Robert Cleghorn 

To Miss Chalmers 

To Mr. William Dunbar, Edinburgh 



rsam 

290 

;91 

29-' 

a9i 

i:9i 

293 

294 

i94 

293 

•295 

V9G 

-96 

29G 

296 

2;t7 

297 

298 

i98 

299 

3(10 

301 

301 

302 

302 

303 

3iJ4 

30.5 

3115 

30ti 

307 

308 

308 

309 

309 

310 

310 

310 

311 

312 

312 

312 

313 

313 

313 

314 

314 

314 

313 

315 

31G 

316 

3IG 

317 

317 

318 

319 

319 

320 

3:!0 

320 
321 
321 
321 
32i 
32i 



COM EMS. 



fAOB 

To Mrs Diinlip d-3 

I'o Mr Jiiiifs Smith, Avon I'rintfield . 32. i 
To I'rolessur Du^akl SLi-ttart . . . ii44 
To Airs Dunloi)' . . ; . 3. -4 

To Mr Robert Ainslie , . . . 3.'l 

To Mrs. Uiinlop 321 

To the Same . . < • • . 3:'5 
To Mr. Robert Ainslie . • • • 32ti 
To the Same ...,,, 3-6 
'J'o the Same ...... 326 

To Mr. Peter Hill 327 

To Mr. George Lockhart . . . ^.-.iS 
To Mrs. Dunlop ..... 328 
To Mr. William Cruikshanks . . 329 
To Mrs. Dunlop ..... 32:j 

To the S.ime 33u 

To Mr. BcuRO 33 i 

To Miss Chalmers, E'linburgh . . 332 
To Mr. Morri.son, Mauchline . . . 333 
To Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop . . . 3.i3 

^o Mr. Peter HiU 334 

To the Editor of " Edinburgh Evening 

Couraiit " 3.35 

To Mrs Dunlop 336 

To Mr James Johnson . . . 33iL 
To Dr. lihicldock ..... 337 

To Mr.s. Dunlop 337 

To Miss Ddvies ...... 338 

To Mr. John Tennant .... 3.i8 

To the Rev. F. Carfrae .... 339 

To Mr.s. Dunlop . . . . i 3 .9 

To Dr. Moore . . . . . .30 

To Mr. Robert .\inslie .... 341 

To Professor Diigald Stewart . . . .41 

To Bishop Geddes 'U2 

To Mr. James Burness .... 342 

ToiMrs Dunlop 34! 

To Mr. ..44 

To Dr Moore 44 

To Mr. Hill i4i 

To Mrs. Dunlop ..... .141) 

To Mrs M'Murdo ..... 340 

To Mr Cunninsliam . . . . 3 6 

To Mr. Samuel Brown . . . .317 

To Richard Brown .... 347 

To .\Ir James Hamilton . . , , nti 
To William Creech,*Esq. . . . 348 

To Mr. M'Auley, oi pumbartou . .W.s 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie .... 349 

To Mr M Murdo . . • . 39 

To Mrs. Dunlop .iU 

To Miss Wdliams ..... 3,id 
To Mr. John Logan .... .'!.31 
To Mrs. Dunlop ..... 351 

To Captain Riddel, Carse . . . 3.'3i 

To Captain Ridtlel 3.5 i 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie .... 3.)3 
To Mr Richard Brown .... 333 
To Robert Graham, Esq. . . . ..54 

To Mrs. Dunlop 3.i4 

To Lady Winfred Ma.\well Constable . S.'j.) 
To Provost Maxwell .... ;;.') i 

To Mr. Sutherland, Player , . . 356 
To Sir John Sinclair . " . . . . 357 

To Mr. GUbert Burns i57 

To Mr. William Dfinbur, W S. . . 35s 
To Mrs Dunlop . . . . ..rjS 

To Mr. Peter Hill, Bookseller, Edui;,.!.^,, ..VJ 

To .Mr. W. Nicol 360 

To Mr Cuiininghaia • • • • 361 



To Mr Hill . , , , 
To Mrs. Dunlop . . . 
To Mr Collector Mitchell. , 
To Dr. .Moore 

To Mr. Murdoch, London. , 
To Mr. .M'.Murdo . 
To Mrs. Dunlop . . . 
I'o .Mr. Cunningham . , 
To Dr. Anderson . . . 
To Craulord Tait, Esq. ; 

To Dr. Blacklock 
To Mrs Dunlop . . . ' 
To Charles Sharpe, Esq. , . 
To Lady VV. M. Constable . 
■I'o .Mr. William Dunbar, W.S. 
To .Mr. Peter Hill 
To Mr. Cunningham , , 
To A F. Tytler, Esq. . 

To tlie Rev G. Baird" . ' . * , 
To Mrs. Dunlop . . . 

To the Rev. Arch. Alison 
To Dr. Moore .... 
To Airs Graham . . , , 
To Mr Cunningham . . 

To Mr. Alexander Dalzicl . , 
To Mrs Dunlop , . , 

To Mr. Cunniniihaia . ; , 
To tlie Earl of Buchan . . 
To Lady E. Cunnin;>liara . . 
To Mr Thomas Sloan . • 
To C.ilonel FuUarton • • , 
I'o .Mis, D ivies. 

To Mis Dunlop . . . • 
To Mr. .\inslie .... 

To ■ 

To Francis Gro^e, Esq., F.S.A 
To Mr William S.upllie, Printer 
To Mr William Nicol 
To r'lancis (iro.-^e, E.sq., F.S.A. . 
To .Mr J. Clarke 

To Mis. D.imop . . . . 
To. Mr Cuiiniiigh.iin . , . 
Mr. I'hoin-oii to Biii'ns . . 

Burns to Mr Thomson . . 
To .Mrs Dunlop . . . . 
To tlie Saiii(^ .... 
Mr Tliomson to Burns . , 

Burns to .Mr. Thomson . . 
Burns to Mr Thomson . 

Burns to Mr. Thomson . . 
Mr. Thomson to Burns . , 

Burns to Mr Thomson . . 
Burns to Mr Thomson . . 

To .Mrs Dunlop 
To R Grahan,; Esq , Fiiitry 
To Mrs. Dunloi) 

To the S.ime 

Burns to Mr Thomson . 
Mr 4'hoinson to Burns 

Postcript, from the Hon. A. Er.- 
Burns to .Mr. Tho'mson 
To < 'laiiium .... 
To Mr C'u'iniu^ham . , , 
Bums to .Mr. Tho'mson . . 
To Aliss Ben-uu . . . . 
Burns to .Mr. Thomson . • 
Mr. Thomson to Burns . • 

Burns to Mr Thomson . . 
To Patrick Miller, Esq. . . 



CONTENTS. 



To John Francis Erskine,.Esq 
Mr. Thomson to Burns 
Burns to Mr. Thomson 
Burns to Mr. Thomson 
Mr Thomson to Burns 
To -Mr. Robert Ainslie. 
To Miss Kennedy 
Burns to Mr. Thcmison 
Burns to Mr. Thomson 
Mr. Thomson to Burns 
Burns to Mr. Thomson 
Burns to Mr. Thomson 
Mr Thomson to Burns 
Burns to Mr. Thomson 
Burns to Air. Thomson 
Mr. Thomson to Burns 
Burns to Mr. Thomson 
Burns to Mr. Thomson 
Burns to Mr. Thomson 
Burns to Mr. Thomson 
Burns to Mr. Thomsoa 
To Miss Craik 
To Lady Glencairn . 
Mr. Thomson to Burns 
Burns to Mr. Thomson 
B.irns to Mr. Thomson 
Mr Thomson to Burns 
Burns to Mr Thomson 
Burns to Mr. Thomson 
Mr. Thomson to Burns 
Burns to Mr Thomson 
Burns to Mr. Thomson 
Burns to Mr. Thomson 
Mr. Thomson to Burns 

To Johi\ M'Murdo, Esq. 

To the Same . . . 

To Capt.iin , . 

To Mrs. hiddel . 

To a Lady . 

To the E;irl of Bueh in. 

To Captain Miller . 
I o M rs llidilel . 

To the Same . . 

To tne Same . . . 

To the Same * « 

To the Same . . , 

To John Syuie, Esq. 

To .Miss . 

To Mr. Cunningham 

Mr. Thomson to Burns 

Burns to Mr. Thomson 

To the Earl of Glencairn 

To Uavid MaccuUoch, Esq. 

To .Mrs. Dunloi) . 

To Mr. James Johnson , 

Burns to Mr. Thomson 

To Mr. Samuel Clarke, Jun 

Mr. Thom.son to Burns 

Burns to Mr Thomson , 

lir. TUonibon to Burns 



THOT 




ri'31 


^97 


Burns to Mr. Thomson . 


423 


309 


Burns to Mr. Thomson 


. 423 


a'»9 


Mr. Thomson to Burns . 


. . 424 


400 


.Mr Thomson to Burns , 


. 425 


400 


Burns to Jlr Thomson , 


4-5 


400 


Mr. Thomson to Burns . 


. . . 427 


401 


Burns to Mr. Thomson . 


4.'7 


40.' 


Burns to Mr. Thomson . 


. 428 


402 


Mr Thomson to Burns , 


429 


402 


Burns to Mr. Thomson . 


. 4.'9 


403 


Burns to Mr. Thomson . 


430 


403 


To IVtcr Miller, Jun., Esq. 


. . 431 


404 


Mr. Thomson to Burns 


431 


404 


Burns to Mr. Thomson . 


. 432 


404 


Burns to Mr. Thomson . 


. 432 


40 1 


Mr. Thomson to Burns . 


. 432 


40.) 


Burns to Mr Thomson . 


432 


4 .5 


-Mr. Thomson to Burns , 


. 433 


40G 


I'.urns to Mr. Thomsoa , 


433 


41-10 


To Airs. Hiddel 


. 433 


40U 


To the Same . . . 


. 434 


400 


To Mr. Heron, of Heron 


. 4:S4 


4117 


To Miss Fontenelle . . 


. 435 


4 Oh 


Mr. Tliomson to Burns . 


. . . 435 


408 


Burns to Mr. Thomson • 


■io5 


41 ly 


liurns to Mr Thomson . 


. 435 


4119 


Mr. Thomson to Burns . 


436 


410 


Burns to Mr. Thomson . 


. 436 


411 


Jlr Thomson to Burns • 


437 


4 2 


Burns to Mr. Tliomson • , 


. 437 


412 


Burns to Mr. Thomson . 


437 


41.i 


Mr. Thomson to Burns . , 


, .437 


413 


To Mrs Dunlop . 


437 


4 4 


I'o .Mr Alo.xanJcr Findlater 


. 438 


4H 


To the Editor of the "Morning 


Chronicle" 438 


415 


To Mrs. Uunlop . 


439 


4l> 


Address of the Scotch Distiller 


3 . . 44U 


41.i 


To the lion the Provost, Ba 


Hies, and 


410 


Tow n Council of Dumfries 


441 


410 


To Mrs Riddel 


. . 441 


4 


To .Mrs Uunlop . 


441 


410 


.Mr. Thomson to Burns • . 


. 442 


4 7 


Burns to Mr Thomson . 


442 


417 


Mr. Thomson to Burns , , 


. 442 


417 


Burns to Mr Thomson , 


443 


417 


.Mr. Thomson to 13urns . . 


. 443 


4 8 


liurns to Mr Thomson , 


443 


4.S 


Burns to Mr Thomson . , 


. 443 


4i9 


lo .Mrs. Riddel . 


444 


419 


■I'o .Mr. Clarke . . , 


. 444 


4 


To .Mr James Joh7ison , 


444 


4.0 


I'o Air. Cunningham . , 


. 4i4 


4.'l 


To .Mr. Gilbert' Burns 


415 


4-'l 


lo Airs. Burns . . , 


. 4J5 


421 


To .Mrs. Dunlop , . 


. , 445 


422 


To Mr James Burncss . . 


i 44C 


422 


Burns to Air. Thomson , 


. . 44G 


422 


Air. Thomson to Burns . . 


. 446 


422 


To James Gracie, Esq. . 


. . 447 


423 


To Mr. James Armour • . 


. . 447 



Notes to the Life of Burns • 

Notes to the Poems of Burns 

Notes to the Correspondence of Btirns 

GL0S&AJ1.Y 



449 
476 
61S 
639 




i-v-/ X**-*--*-^ 




m nf Unlitrt %i\m. 



fttitiatnri] IRrmarks. 

Though tlie dialect in which many of the 
happiest effusions of Kobert Burns are 
composed be pecuhar to Scotland, yet his 
repii^ition has extended itself beyond the 
liiu.ts of that countrj', and his poetry has 
been admired as the offspring- of original 
genius, by persons of taste in every part of 
the sister islands. It seems proper, there- 
fore, to write the memoirs of his life, not 
with the view of their being read by Scotch- 
men only, but also by natives of England, i 
and of other countries where the Enghsh I 
language is spoken or understood. i 

Kobert Burns was, in reality, what he has 
been represented to be, a Scottish peasant. I 
To render the incidents of his humble story 
generally intelligible, it seems, therefore, 
advisable to preii.K some observations on the 
character and situation of the order to which 
he belonged — a class of men distinguished 
by many peculiarities: by this means we 
shall for^i a more correct notion of the 
advantages ^\■ith which he started, and of 
the obstacles which he surmounted. A few 
observations on the Scottish peasantry will 
not, perhaps, be found unworthy of atten- 
tion in other respects — and the subject is, 
in a great measure, new. Scotland has 



produced persons of high distinction iii 
every brancli of philosopliy and literature ; 
and her history, while a separate and inde- 
pendent nation, has been successfiJly ex. 
plored. But the present character of the 
people was not then formed, the nation then 
presented features similar to those which 
the feudal system and the Catholic religion 
had diflused over Europe, modified, indeed, 
by the pecidiar nature of her territory and 
climate. The Reformation, by which such 
important changes were produced on the 
national character, was speedily followed by 
the accession of the Scottish monarchs to 
the English throne ; and the period which 
elapsed from that accession to the Union, 
has been rendered memorable, chiefly, by 
those bloody convulsions in which both 
divisions of the island were involved, and 
which, in a considerable degree, concealed 
from the eye of the historian the domestic 
history of the people, and the gradual varia- 
tions in their condition and manners. Since 
the Union, Scotland, though the seat of 
two unsuccessful attempts to restore the 
house of Stuart to the throne, has enjoyed 
a comparative tranquillity; and it is since 
this period that the present character of her 
peasantry has been in a great measure 
formed, though the political causes affcctiu; 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



it are to be traced to the previous acts of 
her separate legislature. 

A slig-ht acquaintance with the peasan- 
try of Scotland will serve to convince an 
unprejudiced observer, that they possess a 
degree of intelligence not generally found 
among the same class of men in the other 
countries of Europe. In the very humblest 
condition of the Scottish peasants, every 
one can read, and most persons are more or 
less skilled in WTiting and arithmetic ; and, 
under the disguise of their uncouth appear- 
ance, and of their peculiar manners and 
dialect, a stranger will discover that they 
possess a curiosity, and have obtained a 
degree of information, corresponding to 
these acquirements. 

These advantages they owe to the legal 
provision made by the Parliament of Scot- 
land in 1646, for the establishment of a 
school in every parish throughout the 
kingdom, for the express purpose of educa- 
ting the poor— a law which may challenge 
comparison with any act of legislation to 
be found in the records of history, whether 
we consider the wisdom of the ends in 
view, the simplicity of the means employed, 
or the provisions — made to render these 
means effectual to their purpose. This ex- 
cellent statute was repealed on the accession 
of Charles II. in IGGO, together with all the 
other laws passed during the Common- 
wealth, as not being sanctioned by the Royal 
assent. It slept during the reigns of Charles 
and James II., but was re-enacted precisely 
in the same terms, by the Scottish Parlia- 
ment, in 1696, after the Revolution ; and 
this is the last provision on the subject. 
Its effects on the national character may be 
considered to have commenced about the 
period of the Union, and doubtless it co- 
operated with the peace and security arising 
from that happy event, in producing the 
extraordinary change in favour of industry 
and good morals, which the character of the 
common people of Scotland has since under- 
gone. 

The church establishment of Scotland 
happily comcides with the institution just 
mentioned, which may be called its school 
establishment. The clergyman, being every- 
where resident in his particular parish, 
becomes the natural patron and superinten- 
dant of the parish school, and is enabled in 
various ways to promote the comfort of the 
.teacher, and the proficiency of the scholars. 
The teacher himself is often a candidate 
.for holy orders, who, during the long course 
of study and probation refjuired in the 
iScottisU church, renders the time wliich can 



be spared from his professional studies useful 
to others as well as to himself, by assuming 
the respectable character of a schoolmaster. 
It is common for the established schools, 
even in the country parishes of Scotland, to 
enjoy the means of classical instruction; 
and many of the farmers, and some even 
of the cottagers, submit to much privation, 
that they may obtain, for one of their 
sons at least, the precarious advantage of 
a learned education. The difficulty to bj 
surmoimted arises indeed, not from the 
expense of instructing their children, but 
from the charge of supporting them. In the 
country parish schools, the English lan- 
guage, writing and accounts, are generally 
taught at the rate of six shillings, and 
Latin at the rate of ten or twelve shillings, 
per annum. In the towns the prices arc 
somewhat higher. 

It woidd be improper in this place to 
inquire minutely into the degree of instruc- 
tion received at these seniiuarics, or to 
attempt any precise estimate of its effects, 
either on the individuals who are the sub- 
jects of this instruction, or on the com- 
munity to which they belong. That it is, 
on the whole, favourable to industry and 
morals, though doubtless with some indi- 
vidual exceptions, seems to be proved by 
the most striking and decisive experience ; 
and it is equally clear, that it is the cause of 
that spirit of emigration and of adventure 
so prevalent among the Scotch. Knowledge 
has, by Lord Verulam, been denominated 
power ; by others it has, \\ith less propriety, 
been denominated virtue or happiness : we 
may with contidence consider it as motion. 
A human being, in proportion as he is 
informed, has liis wishes enlarged, as well 
as the means of gratifying those \vishes. 
He may be considered as taking within the 
sphere of his vision a large portion of the 
globe on which we tread, and discovering 
advantage at a greater distance on its sur- 
face. His desires or ambition, once excited, 
are stimulated by his imagination ; and 
distant and uncertain objects, gn'ing Ircer 
scope to the operation of this faculty; often 
acquire, in the mind of the youthful adven- 
turer, an attractio:i from their very distance 
and uncertainty. If, therefore, a greater de- 
gree of instruction be given to the peasantry 
of a country comparati\ ely poor, in the 
neighbourhood of other countries rich in 
natural and acquired advantages, and if 
the barriers be removed that kept them 
separate, emigration from the former to the 
latter will take place to a certain extent, 
by laws nearly as uniform as those by 



RELIGIOUS EDUCATION. 



3 



which heat diffuses itself amons: surrounding 
biidies, or water finds its level when left to 
its natural course. By the articles of the 
Union, the barrier was broken down which 
divided the two British nations, and know- 
le(li,''e and poverty poured the adventurous 
natives of the north over the fertile plains 
of England ; and more especially, over the 
colonies which she had settled in the east 
and in the west. The stream of population 
continues to flow from the north to the 
south, for the causes that originally impelled 
it continue to operate ; and the richer 
country is constantly invigorated by the 
accession of an informed and hardy race 
of men, educated in poverty, and prepared 
for liardship and danger; patient of labour 
and prodigal of life. 

The preachers of the Reformation in 
Scotland were disciples of Calvin, and 
brought with them the temper as well as 
the tenets of that celebrated heresiarcli. 
The Presbyterian form of worship and of 
church government was endeared to the 
people, from its being established by them- 
selves. It was endeared to them, also, by 
the struggle it had to maintain with the 
Catholic and Protestant episcopal churches 



national church ; and hence the first and 
most constant exercise of ingenuity among 
the peasantry of Scotland, is displayed in 
religious disputation. With a strong attach- 
ment to the national creed, is conjoined a 
bigoted preference for certain forms of wor- 
ship ; the source of which would be often 
altogether obscure, if we did not recollect 
that the ceremonies of the Scottish Church 
were framed in direct opposition, in every 
point, to those of the Church of Rome. 

The eccentricities of conduct, and singu- 
larities of opinion and manners, which cha- 
racterised the English sectaries in the last 
century, afforded a subject for the comic 
muse of Butler, whose pictures lose their 
interest since their archetypes are lost. 
Some of the peculiarities common among 
the more rigid disciples of Calvinism in 
Scotland, in the present times, have given 
scope to the ridicide of Bums, whose 
humour is equal to Butler's, and whose 
drawings from living manners are singularly 
expressive and exact. Unfortunately, the 
correctness of his taste did not always cor- 
respond with the strength of his genius. 

The information and the religious educa- 
tion of the peasantry of Scotland, promote 



over both of which, after a hundred years j sedateness of conduct, and habits of thought 
of fierce, and sometimes bloody contention, i and reflection. These good quaUties are not 
it finally triumphed, receiving the counte- 1 counteracted by the establishment of poor 
nance of government and the sanction of laws. Happily, in Scotland, the same legis- 
law. During this long period of contention , lature which established a system of instruc- 
and of sutTering, the temper of the people tion for the poor, resisted the introduction 
became more and more obstinate and ! of a legal provision for the support of 
bigoted; and the nation received that deep j poverty; hence it will not appear surprising, 
tinge of fanaticism which coloured their if the Scottish peasantry have a more than 
public transactions, as well as their private ! usual share of prudence and reflection, if 
virtues, and of which evident traces may be I they approach nearer than persons of their 
found in our o^\ni times. A^'hen the public ; order usually do to the definition of a 
schools were established, the instruction man — that of "a being that looks before 
communicated in them partook of the re- | and after." These observations must indeed 
ligious character of the people. The Cate- i be taken with many exceptions ; the favour- 



cliism of the Westminster Divines was the 
universal school-book, and was put into the 
hands of the young peasant as soon as he 
had acquired a knowledge of his alphabet ; 
and his first exercise in the art of reading, 
introduced him to the most mysterious 
doctrines of the Cliristian faith. This prac- 
tice is continued in our own times. After the 
Assembly's Catechism, the Proverbs of Solo- 
mon, and the New and Old Testament follow 
in regidar succession ; and the scholar de- 
parts, gifted with the knowledge of the 
sacred writings, and rccei\ing their doctrines 
according to the interpretation of the AVcst- 
minster Confession of Faith. Tlius, with the 
instruction of infancy in the schools of 
Scotland, are blended the dogmas of the 



2* 



able operation of the causes just mentioned 
is counteracted by others of an opposite 
tendency ; and the subject, if fully examined, 
would lead to discussions of great extent. 

AVhen the Reformation was established iu 
Scotland, instrumental music was banished 
from the churches, as savouring too much 
of " profane nunstrclsy." Instead of being 
regulated by an mstrument, the voices of 
the congregation are led and directed by a 
person under the name of a precentor, and 
the people ;re all expected to join iu the 
tune which he chooses for the psalm which 
is to be sung. Church music is therefore a 
part of the education of the peasantry of 
Scotland, in which they are usually in- 
structed La the long winter nights by the 



LIFE OF BURNS, 



parish schoolmaster, who is generally the 
precentor, or by itinerant teachers, more 
celebrated for their powers of voice. This 
branch of education had, in the last reign, 
fallen into some neglect, but was revi\ed 
about thirty or forty years ago, when the 
music itself was reformed and improved. 
The Scottish system of psalmody is, how- 
ever, radically bad. Destitute of taste or 
luiruiony, it forms a striking contrast with 
the delicacy and pathos of the profane airs. 
Our poet, it will be foimd, was taught church 
music, in which, however he attained little 
proficiency. 

That dancing should also be very gene- 
rally a part of tlie education of the Scottish 
peasantry, will surprise those who have only 
seen this description of men ; and still more 
those who reflect on the rigid spirit of Cal- 
vinism, with which the nation is so deeply 
affected, and to which this recreation is so 
strongly abhorrent. The winter is also the 
season when they acquire dancing, and, 
indeed, almost all their other instruction. 
They are taught to dance by persons gene- 
rally of their own number, many of whom 
work at daily labour during the summer 
months. The school is usually a barn, and 
the arena for the performers is generally 
a clay floor. The dome is lighted by 
candles stuck in one end of a cloven stick, 
the other end of which is thrust into the 
wall. Reels, strathspeys, contra-dances, and 
hornpipes, are here practised. The jig, 
so much in favour among the English 
peasantry, has no place among them. The 
attachment of the people of Scotland of 
every rank, and particularly of the peasan- 
try, to this amusement, is very great. 
After the labours of the day are over, 
young men and women walk many miles, 
in the cold and dreary nights of winter, 
to these country dancing-schools; and the 
instant that the viohn sounds a Scottish 
air, fatigue seems to vanish, the toil-bent 
rustic becomes erect, his features brighten 
with sympathy, every nerve seems to thrill 
with sensation, and every artery to vibrate 
with life. These rustic performers are 
indeed less to be admired for grace than 
for agility and animation, and for their 
accurate observance of time. Their modes 
of dancing, as well as their tunes, are com- 
mon to e\ery rank in Scotland, and are 
now generally known. In out own day 
they have penetrated into England, and 
have established themselves even in the 
circle of royalty. In another generation 
they will be naturalised iu every part of 
the island. 



The prevalence of this taste, or rather 
passion, for dancing, among a people so 
deeply tinctured with the spirit and doc- 
trines of Calvin, is one of those contra- 
dictions which the philosophic observer so 
often finds in national character and manners. 
It is probably to be ascribed to the Scottish 
music, which, throughout all its varieties, 
is so full of sensibility, and which, in its 
livelier strains, awakes those vivid emotions 
that find in dancing their natural solace and 
relief. 

This triumph of the music of Scotland 
over the spirit of the established religion, 
has not however, been obtained, without 
long-continued and obstinate struggles. The 
numerous sectaries who dissent from the 
Establishment on account of the relaxation 
which they perceive, or think they perceive, 
in the Church, from her original doctrines 
and discipline, miiversally condemn the prac- 
tice of dancing, and the schools where it is 
taught ; and the more elderly and serious 
part of the people, of every persuasion, 
tolerate rather than approve these meetings 
of the young of both sexes, where dancing 
is practised to their spirit-stirring music, 
where care is dispelled, toil is forgotten, 
and prudence itself is sometmies lulled to 
sleep. (1) 

The Reformation, which proved fatal to 
the rise of the other tine arts in Scotland, 
probably impeded, but coidd not obstruct, 
the progress of its music — a circumstance 
that will convince the impartial inquirer, 
that this music not only existed previously 
to that era, but had taken a firm hold of 
the nation, thus affording a proof of its 
antiquity stronger than any produced by 
the researches of our antiquaries. (2) 

The impression which the Scottish music 
has made on the people, is deepened by its 
tuiion with the national songs, of which 
various collections of unequal merit are 
before the public. These songs, like those 
of other nations, are many of them hu- 
morous, but they chiefly treat of love, war, 
and drinking. Love is the subject of the 
greater proportion. Without displaying 
the higher powers of the imagination, they 
exhibit a perfect knowledge of the human 
heart, and breathe a spirit of affection, and 
sometimes of delicate and romantic ten- 
derness, not to be surpassed in modern 
poetry, and which the more polished strains 
of antiquity have seldom possessed. 

The origin of this amatory character in 
the rustic muse of Scotland, or of the 
greater number of these love-songs them- 
selves, it would be difficult to trace ; they 



SOCIAL INTERCOURSE OF THE SEXES. 



have accuimilated in the silent lapse of 
time, and it is now perhaps impossible to 
give an arrangement of them in the order 
of their date, valuable as such a record of 
tSste and manners would be. Their present 
influence on the character of the nation is, 
however, great and striking. To them we 
must attribute, in a great measure, the 
romantic passion which so often character- 
ises the attachments of the humblest of 
the people of Scotland, to a degree that, if 
we mistake not, is seldom found in the 
same rank of society in other countries. 
The ))ictures of love and happiness exhibited 
in their rural songs, are early impressed on 
the mind of the peasant, and are rendered 
more attractive from the music with which 
they are united. Tliey associate themselves 
with his own youthful emotions ; they ele- 
vate the object as well as the nature of his 
attachment ; and give to the impressions 
of sense the beautiful colours of imagination. 
Hence, in the course of his passion, a Scottish 
peasant often exerts a spirit of adventure, 
of which a Spanish cavalier need not be 
ashamed. After the labours of the day are 
over, he sets out for the habitation of his 
mistress, perhaps at many miles' distance, 
regardless of the length or the dreariness 
of the \x'ay. He approaches her in secrecy, 
under the disguise of night. A signal at 
the door or window, perhaps agreed on, and 
understood by none but her, gives in- 
formation of his arrival ; and sometimes it 
is repeated again and again, before the ca- 
pricious fair-one wnll obey the summons. 
But if she favours his addresses, she escapes 
unobserved, and receives the vows of her 
lover under the gloom of twilight or the 
deeper shade of night. Interviews of this 
kind are the subjects of many of the Scottish 
songs, some of the most beautiful of whieii 
Burns has imitated or improved. In the 
art which they celebrate he was perfectly 
skilled ; he knew and had practised all its 
mysteries. Intercourse of this sort is indeed 
universal, even in the humblest condition 
of man in every region of the earth. But 
it is not unnatural to suppose that it may 
exist in a greater degree, and in a more 
romantic form, among the peasantry of a 
country who are supposed to be more than 
commonly instructed ; — who find in their 
rural songs expressions for their youthful 
emotions ; — and in whom the embers of 
passion are continually fanned by the 
breatliings of a music full of tenderness 
and sensibility. The direct influence of 
physical causes on the attachment between 
the sexes is comparatively small, but it is 



modified by moral causes beyond any other 
affection of the mind. Of these, music and 
poetry are the chief. Among the snows of 
Laplarul, and under the burning sun of 
Angola, the savage is seen hastening to his 
mistress, and everj^vhere he begiules the 
weariness of his journey with poetry and 
song. (3) 

In appreciating the happiness and virtue 
of a community, there is perhaps no single 
criterion on which so much dependence may 
be placed, as the state of the intercourse 
between the sexes. Where this displays 
ardour of attaciiment, accompanied by purity 
of conduct, the character and the influence 
of women rise in society, our imperfect 
nature mounts in the scale of moral excel- 
lence ; and, from the source of this single 
affection, a stream of felicity descends, 
which branches into a thousand rivulets that 
enrich and adorn the field of life. AVhere 
tlie attaclmient between the sexes sinks into 
an appetite, the heritage of our species is 
comparatively poor, and man a;iproaches the 
condition of the brutes that perish. " If we 
could with safety indulge the pleasing sup- 
position that Fingal Ined and that Ossian 
sung" (4), Scotland, judging fi-om this crite- 
rion, might be considered as ranking high 
in happiness and virtue in very remote ages. 
To appreciate her situation by the same 
criterion in our own times, would be a 
delicate and a ditticidt undertaking. Afrcr 
considering the probable influence of her 
popular songs and her national music, and 
examining how far the effects to be expected 
from these are supported by facts, the in- 
quirer woidd also have to examine the 
influence of other causes, and particularly 
of her civil and ecclesiastical institutions, by 
which the character, and even the manners 
i of a people, though silently and slowly, are 
j often powerfully controlled. In the point 
I of view in which we are considering the 
subject, the ecclesiastical establishments of 
j Scotland may be supposed peculiarly fa- 
vourable to piu-ity of conduct. The disso- 
luteness of manners among the Catholic 
clergy, which preceded, and in some measure 
produced the Reformation, led to an ex- 
traordinary strictness on the part of the 
reformers, and especially in that particular 
I in which the licentiousness of the clergy 
j had been carried to its greatest height — • 
I the intercourse between the sexes. On this 
I point, as on aH others connected with auste- 
I rity of manners, the disciples of Calvin 
assumed a greater severity than those of 
the Protestant Episcopal church. The 
punishment of illicit connection between 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



the sexes was, throughout all Europe, a 
province which the clergy assumed to tliem- 
selves ; and the church of Scotland, which 
at the Reformation renounced so many 
jiowers and privileges, at that period took 
this crime imder her more especial juris- 
diction. Where pregnancy takes place with- 
out marriage, the condition of the female 
causes the discovery ; and it is on her, 
therefore, in the first instance, that the 
clergy and elders exercise their zeal. After 
examination before the kirk-session, touch- 
ing the circumstance of her guilt, she must 
endure a public penance and sustain a 
public rebuke from the pulpit, for three 
Sabbaths successively, in the face of the 
congregation to which she belongs, and thus 
lia\'e her weakness exposed, and her shame 
blazoned. The sentence is the same with 
res])ect to the male, but how much lighter 
the punishment ! It is well known that 
this dreadful law, worthy of the iron minds 
of Calvin and of Knox, has often led to 
consequences, at the very mention of which 
liuman nature recoils. (H) 

WTiile the punishment of incontinence 
prescribed by the institutions of Scotland is 
severe, the culprits have an obvious method 
of avoiding it, afforded them by the law 
respecting marriage, the validity of which 
requires neiliier the ceremonies of the 
church, nor any other ceremonies, but 
simply the deliberate acknowledgement of 
each otlier as husband and wife, made by 
the parties before witnesses, or in any other 
way that gives legal evidence of such an 
acknowledgement having taken place. And 
as the parlies themselves fix the date of 
their marriage, an o])portunity is thus given 
to avoid the punishment, and repair the con- 
sequences, of illicit gratification. Such a 
degree of laxity respecting so serious a con- 
tract might produce mncli confusion in the 
descent of property without a still farther 
indulgence ; but the law of Scotland, legi- 
timating all children born before wedlock, 
on the subsequent marriage of their parents, 
renders the actual date of the marriage 
itself of little consequence. Marriages con- 
tracted in Scotland without the ceremonies 
of the church, are considered as irrer/idar, 
and the parties usually submit to a rebuJce 
for their conduct, iu the face of their 
respective congregations, which is not how- 
ever necessary to render the marriage valid. 
Burns, whose marriage, it will appear, was 
irregular, does not seem to have undergone 
this part of the discipline of the chureli. 

Thus, though the institutions of Scotland 
are in many particidars favourable to a con- 



duct among the peasantry founded upoa 
foresight and reflection, on the subject of 
marriage the reverse of this is true. Irre- 
gidar marriages, it may be luiturally sup- 
posed, are often improvident ones, in 
whatever rank of society they occur. TPhe 
children of such marriages, poorly endowed 
by their parents, find a certain degree of 
instruction of easy acquisition, but the 
comforts of Ufe, and the gratifications of 
ambition, they find of more dirticult attain- 
ment in their native soil ; and thus the 
marriage laws of Scotland consjiire, with 
other circumstances, to produce that habit 
of emigration, and spirit of adventure, for 
which the people are so remarkable. 

The manners and appearance of the Scot- 
tish peasantry do not bespeak to a stranger 
the degree of their cidtivation. In their 
own country, their industry is inferior to 
that of the same description of men in the 
southern division of the island. Industry and 
the usefid arts reached Scotland later than 
England ; and though their advance has 
been rapid there, the effects produced are 
as yet far inferior both in reality and in 
appearance. The Scottish farmers have in 
general neither the opulence nor the com- 
forts of those of England, neither vest the 
same capital in the soil, nor receive from 
it the same return. Their clothing, their 
food, and their habitations, are almost 
everywhere inferior. (6) Tlieir appearance iu 
these respects corresponds with the appear- 
ance of their comitry ; and under the 
operation of patient industry, both are im- 
proving. Industry and the useful arts came 
later into Scotland than into England, be- 
cause the security of property came later. 
AVith causes of internal agitation and warfare, 
similar to those which occurred to the more 
southern nation, the people of Scotland were 
exposed to more imminent hazards and to 
more extensive and destructive spoliation, 
from external war. Occupied in the mainte- 
nance of their independence against their 
more powerful neighbours, to this purpose 
were necessarily sacrificed the arts of peace, 
and, at certain periods, the flower of their 
population. And when the union of the 
crowns produced a security from national 
wars with England, for the century suc- 
ceeding, the ci\il wars common to both 
divisions of the island, and the dependence, 
perhaps the necessary dependence, of the 
Scottish councils on those of the more 
powerful kingdom, counteracted this disad- 
vantage. Even the union of the British 
nations was not, from obvious causes, im- 
meihately followed by all the beneljts which 



PATRIOTISM OF THE SCOTCH. 



it was ultimately destined to produce. At 
length, however, these benefits are distinctly 
felt, and generally acknowledijed. Property 
is secure; manufactures and commerce in- 
creasinj; ; and agriculture is rapidly improv- 
ing in Scotland. As yet indeed, the farmers 
arc not, in general, enabled to make improve- 
ments out of their own capitals, as in 
England ; but the landliolders who have 
seen and felt the advantages resulting from 
them, contribute towards tliemwitha liberal 
hand. Hence property, as well as population, 
is accumulating rapidly on the Scottish soil ; 
and the nation, enjoying a great part of the 
blessings of Enghshmeu, and retaining 
several of their own hapjiy institutions, 
might be considered, if contidence could be 
placed in human foresight, to be as yet only 
in an early stage of their progress. Yet 
there are obstructions in their way. To 
the cultivation of the soil are opposed the 
extent and the strictness of the entails ; to 
the improvement of the people, the rapidly 
increasing use of spirituous liquors, a de- 
testable practice, which includes in its con- 
sequences almost every evil, physical and 
moral. (7) The peculiarly social disposition 
of the Scottish peasantry exposes them to 
this practice. This disposition, which is 
fostered by their national songs and music, 
is perhaps characteristic of the nation at 
large. Though the source of many 
pleasures, it counteracts, by its conse- 
quences, the efTects of their patience, in- 
dustry, and frugality, both at home and 
abroad, of which those especially who have 
witnessed the progress of Scotsmen in 
other countries must have known many 
striking instances. 

Since the Union, the manners and language 
of the people of Scotland have no longer a 
standard among themselves, but are tried by 
the standard of the nation to which they are 
united, niough their habits are far from 
being flexible, yet it is evident that their 
manners and dialect are undergoing a rapid 
change. Even the farmers of the present 
day appear to have less of the peculiarities of 
their country in their speech than the men 
of letters of the last generation. 15urns, who 
never left the island, nor penetrated farther 
into Englaiul than Carhsle on the one hand, 
or Newca.stle on the otiier, had less of the 
Scottish dialect than Hume, who lived tor 
many years iu the best society of Englaiul 
and France — or perhaps than llobertson, who 
wrote the English language in a style of 
such purity ; and if he had been in other 
respects litted to take a lead in the Briti.sh 
House of Commons, his prouiuiciation 



would neither have fettered his eloquence^ 
nor deprived it of its due effect. 

A striking particular in the character of 
the Scottish peasantry, is one which it is 
hoped will not be lost — the strength of 
their domestic attachments. The priva- 
tions to which many parents submit for the 
good of their children, and particularly to 
obtain for them instruction, which they con- 
sider as the chief good, has already been 
noticed. If their children live and ])rosper, 
they iiave their certain reward, not merely 
as witnessing, bnt as sharing of their pros- 
perity. Even in the humblest ranks of the 
peasantry, the earnings of the children may 
generally be considered as at the disposal 
of their parents : perhaps in no country is 
so large a portion of the wages of labour 
applied to the support and comfort of those 
whose days of labour are past. A similar 
strength of attachment extends through all 
the domestic relations. Our poet partook 
largely of this amiable characteristic of his 
humble compeers : he was also strongly 
tinctured with another striking feature which 
belongs to them — a partiality for his native 
country, of which many proofs may be found 
in his wTitings. This, it must be confessed, 
is a very strong and general sentiment 
among the natives of Scotland, differing, 
however, in its character, according to the 
character of the different minds in which 
it is fotmd — in some appearing a selfish 
prejudice, in others a generous affection. 

An attachment to the land of tlieir birth 
is, indeed, common to all men. It is found 
among the inhabitants of every region of 
the earth, from the arctic to the ant-arctic 
circle, in all the vast variety of climate, of 
surface, and of civilisation. To analyse this 
general sentiment, to trace it through the 
mazes of association up to the primary affec- 
tion in which it has its source, would neither 
be a dirticult nor an unpleasing labour. On 
the first consideration of the subject, we 
should perhaps expect to find this attachment 
strong in proportion to the physical advan- 
tages of the soil ; but inquiry, far from 
confirming this supposition, seems rather to 
lead to an opposite conclusion. In those 
fertile regions where beneficent nature yields 
almost spontaneo>isly whatever is necessary 
to hiunan wants, patriotism, as well as every 
other generous sentiment, seems weak and 
languid. In comitries less richly endowed, 
where the comforts, and even necessaries of 
life, must be purchased by patient toil, the 
all'ections of the mind, as well as the faculties 
of the imderstanding, improve under exertion, 
and patriotism flourishes amidst its kindred 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



virtues. WTiero it is necessary to combine 
fur mutual defence, as well as fur the supply 
of common wants, mutual good-will springs 
from mutual difficulties and labours, the 
social affections unfold themselves, and extend 
from the men with whom we live to the soil 
on which we tread. It will perhaps be 
found, indeed, that our affections cannot 
be originally called forth, but by objects 
capable, or supposed capable, of feeling our 
sentiments, and of returning them ; but 
when once excited, they are strengthened by 
exercise ; they are expanded by the powers 
of imagination, and seize more especially on 
those inanimate parts of creation, which 
form the theatre on wliich we have first felt 
the alternations of joy and sorrow, and first 
tasted the sweets of sympathy and regard. 
If this reasoning be just, the love of our 
country, although modified, and even ex- 
tinguished m individuals by the chances and 
changes of life, may be presumed, in our 
general reasonings, to be strong among a 
people, in proportion to their social, and more 
especially to their domestic affections. Under 
free governments it is found more active 
than under despotic ones, because, as the 
individual becomes of more consequence in 
the commimity, the community becomes of 
more consequence to him. In small states it 
is generally more active than in large ones, 
for the same reason, and also because the 
independence of a small community being 
maintained with difficulty, and frequently 
endangered, sentiments of patriotism are 
more frequently excited. In mountainous 
countries it is generally found more active 
than in plains, because there the necessities 
of life often require a closer union of the 
inhabitants ; and more especially, because 
in such countries, though less popidous than 
plains, the inhabitants, instead of being 
scattered equally over the whole, are usually 
divided into small communities on the sides 
of their separate vallies, and on the banks 
of their respective streams — situations well 
calculated to call forth and to concentrate 
the social affections, amidst scenery that acts 
most powerfully on the sight, and makes 
a lasting impression on the memory. It 
may also be remarked, that mountainous 
countries are often peculiarly calculated to 
nourish sentiments of national pride and 
independence, from the influence of history 
on the affections of the mind. In such 
countries from their natural strength, inferior 
nations have maintained their independence 
against their more powerful neighbours, and 
valour, in all ages, has made its most success- 
ful efforts against oppression. Such countries 



present the fields of battle where the tide of 
invasion was rolled back, and wliereon the 
ashes rest of those who have died in defence 
of their nation ! 

The operation of the various causes we 
have mentioned is doubtless more general 
and more permanent, where the scenery of 
a country, the peculiar manners of its in- 
habitants, and the martial achievements of 
their ancestors, are embodied in national 
songs, and united to national music. By 
this combination, the ties that attach men to 
the land of their birth are multiplied and 
strengthened, and the images of infancy, 
strongly associating with the generous affec- 
tions, resist the influence of time, and of 
new impressions ; they often survive in 
comitries far distant, and amidst far different 
scenes, to the latest period of life, to soothe 
the heart with the pleasures of memory, 
when those of hope die away. 

If this reasoning be just, it will explain 
to us why among the natives of Scotland, 
even of cultivated minds, we so generally find 
a partial attachment to the land of their 
birth, and why this is so strongly dis- 
coverable in the writings of Burns, who 
joined to the higher powers of the under- 
standing the most ardent affections. Let 
not men of reflection think it a superfluous 
labour to trace the rise and progress of a 
character hke his. Born in the condition 
of a peasant, be rose, by the force of his 
mind, into distinction and influence, and in 
his works has exhibited what are so rarely 
found, the charms of original genius. With 
a deep insight into the humaii heart, his 
poetry exhibits high powers of imagination 
— it displays, and as it were embalms, the 
peculiar manners of his country ; and it 
may be considered as a monument, not to 
his own name only, but to the expiring 
genius of an ancient and once independent 
nation. In relating the iucidents of his life, 
candour wiU prevent us from dwelling 
invidiously on those faihngs which justice 
forbids us to conceal ; we will tread lightly 
over liis yet warm ashes, and respect the 
laurels that shelter liis imtimely grave. 



Robert Burns was, as is well known, the 
son of a farmer in Ayrshire, and afterwards 
himself a farmer there ; but, having been 
unsuccessful, he was about to emigrate to 
Jamaica. He had previously, however, at- 
tracted some notice by his poetical talents 
in the vicinity where he hved ; and having 
pubhshed a small volume of his poems at 



U URNS' SKETCH OF HIS OWN Lll'Ji 



Kilmarnock, this drew upon him more 
general attention. In consequence of the 
encouragement he received, lie repaired to 
Edinburgh, and there published, by sub- 
fcription, an improved and enlarged edition 
of his poems, which met with extraordinary 
success. By the profits arising from the 
sale of this edition, he was enabled to 
enter on a farm in Dumfries- shire ; and 
havuig married a person to whom he had 
been long attached, he retired to devote the 
remainder of his life to agriculture. He 
was again, however, unsuccessfid ; and, 
abandoning his farm, he removed into the 
town of Dumfries, where he filled an inferior 
office in the Excise, and where he termi- 
nated his life in July 1796, in liis thirty- 
eighth year. 

The strength and originality of his genms 
procured him the notice of many persons 
distinguished m the repubUc of letters, and, 
among others, that of Dr. Moore, well 
knowni for his Views of Society and Manners 
on the Continent of Europe, for his Zeluco, 
and various other works. To this gentle- 
man our poet addressed a letter, after his 
first visit to Edinburgh, giving a history of 
his Ufe, up to the period of his ■mriting. 
In a composition never intended to see the 
light, elegance, or perfect correctness of 
composition, will not be expected. These, 
however, wLU be compensated by the oppor- 
tunity of seeing our poet, as he gives the 
incidents of his life, unfold the peculiarities 
of his character with all the careless ngour 
and open sincerity of liis mind. 

" Maucldine, 2nd August, 1787. 
"Sir. — For some months past I have 
been rambling over the coimtry, but I am 
now confined with some lingering complaints, 
originating, as I take it, in the stomach. 
To divert my spirits a Uttle in this miser- 
able fog of ennui, I have taken a whim to 
give you a history of myself. My name 
has made some little noise in this country 
• — you have done me the honour to interest 
yourself very warmly in my behalf; and I 
tlmik a faitliful account of what character 
of a man 1 am, and how I came by that 
character, may perhaps amuse you in an idle 
moment. I will give you an honest narra- 
tive, though I know it will be often at my 
own expense ; for I assure you sir, I ha\ e, 
like Solomon, whose character, excepting in 
the trifling affair of ivisiloin, I sometimes 
think I resemble — I have, I say, like him 
turned my eyes to behold mndiiess and fully, 
and, hke him, too frequently shaken hands 
with their intoxicatmg friendship. • • • 



After you have perused these pages, should 
you think them trifling and impertinent, I 
only beg leave to tell you, that the poor 
author wTOte them under some twitcliing 
qualms of conscience, arising from sus])icion 
that he was doing what he ought not to 
do — a predicament he has more than once 
been in before." 

" I have not the most distant pretensions 
to assume that character which the pye- 
coated guardians of escutcheons call a 
gentleman. When at Edinburgh last winter 
I got acquainted in the Herald's Office ; 
and, looking through that granary of 
honours, I there found almost every name 
in the kingdom 1 but for me, 

' My ancient but ignoble blood 
Has crept thro' scoundrels ever since the 

flood.' 
Gules, Purpure, Argent, &c., quite disowned 
me." 

My father was of the north of Scotland, 
the son of a farmer, and was thrown by early 
misfortunes on the world at large, where, 
after many years' wanderings and sojourn- 
ings, he picked up a pretty large quantity of 
observation and experience, to which 1 am 
indebted for most of my little pretensions 
to wisdom. I have met with few who im- 
derstood men, their manners, and their ways, 
equal to him ; but stubborn, migainly 
integrity, and headlong ungovernable irasci- 
bility, are disqualifying circumstances, con- 
sequently I was born a very poor man's son. 
For the first six or seven years of my life, my 
father was gardener to a worthy gentleman 
of small estate in the neighbourhood of 
Ayr. Had he continued in that station, I 
must have marched off to be one of the little 
underlings about a farm-house ; but it was 
his dearest wish and prayer to have it in 
his power to keep his children under his 
own eye till they could discern between 
good and evil ; so, with with the assistance 
of his generous master, my father ventured 
on a small farm on his estate. At those 
years I was by no means a favourite with 
any body. I was a good deal noted for a 
retentive memory, a stubborn sturdy some- 
thing in my disposition, and an enthusiastic 
idiotic piety. I say idiotic piety, because I 
was then but a child. Though it cost the 
schoolmaster some thrashings, I made an 
excellent English scholar, and by the time 
I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a 
critic in substantives, verbs, and particles. 
In my infant and boyish days, too, I owed 
much to an old woman who resided in the 
family, remarkable for her ignorance, ere- 
I duhty, and superstiliou. bhc had, I sup- 



10 



LIFE OF BUBNS. 



pose, the largest collection in the country 
of tales and songs conceniiiig devils, ghosts, 
fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, siiuukies, 
kelpies, elf-candles, dead-liglits, wraiths, 
apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted 
towers, dragons, and other trumpery. This 
cultivated the latent seeds of poetry, but had 
80 strong an effect on my imagination, that 
to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I 
sometimes keep a sharp look-out in sus- 
picious places ; and though nobody can be 
more sceptical than I aui in such matters, 
yet it often takes an effort of philosophy to 
shake off these idle terrors. The earliest 
composition that I recollect taking pleasure 
in was The ^ ision of Rlirza, and a hymn 
of Addison's, beginning, " llow are thy 
servants blest, oh Lord ! " I particularly 
remember one half-stanza, which was music 
to my boyish ear : — 

' For thou^xh on dreadful whirls we hung 

High on the broken wave.' 
I met with these pieces in Mason's English 
Collection, one of my school-books. The 
two first books I ever read in private, and 
which gave me more pleasure than any 
two books I ever read smce, were the Life 
of Hannibal, and TheHistory of Sir William 
Wallace. Hannibal gave my young ideas 
such a turn, that I used to strut in rap- 
tures up and down after the recruiting drum 
and bagpipe, and wish myself tall enough 
to be a soldier ; while the story of \^"allace 
poured a Scottish prejudice into my veins, 
which will boil along there till the flood- 
gates of life shut in eternal rest." 

" Polemical di^•inity about this time was 
putting the country half mad ; and I, ambi- 
tious of shining in conversation parties on 
Sundays, between sermons, at funerals, &c., 
used, a few years afterwards, to puzzle 
Calvinism with so much heat and indiscre- 
tion, that I raised a hue and cry of heresy 
against me, wliich has not ceased to this 
hour." 

" My vicinity to Ayr was of some advan- 
tage to me. My social disposition, when 
not checked by some modifications of spirited 
pride, was, like our Catechism definition of 
infinitude, without bounds or limils. I 
formed several coimections with other 
younkers who possessed superior advan- 
tages, the yountjUng actors, who were busy 
in the rehearsal of parts in which they 
were shortly to appear on the stage of life, 
where, alas ! I was destined to drudge 
behind the scenes. It is not commonly at 
this green age that our young gentry have 
a just seuse of the immense distance be- 
tween them and their ragged playfellows. 



It takes a few dashes into the world, to giro 
the young great man that proper, decent, 
unnoticing disregard for the poor insigni- 
ficant, stupid devils, the mechanics and 
peasantry around him, who were perhaps 
born in the same village. My young supe- 
riors never insulted the clouterly appearance 
of my plough-boy carcase, the two extremes 
of which were often exposed to all the in- 
clemencies of all seasons. They would give 
me stray volumes of books : among them, 
even then, I could pick up some observa- 
tions ; and one, whose heart I am sure not 
even the Manny Becjum scenes have tainted, 
helped me to a little French. Parting with 
these my young fiiends and benefactors, as 
they occasionally went off for the East or 
West Indies, was often to me a sore aflSic- 
tion ; but I was soon called to more serious 
evils. My father's generous master died ; 
the farm proved a ruinous bargain ; and to 
clench the misfortune, we fell into the hands 
of a factor, who sat for the picture I have 
drawn of one in my tale of Twa Dogs. 
My father was advanced in Ufe when he 
married ; I was the eldest of seven children ; 
and he, worn out by early hardships, was 
unfit for labour. My father's spirit was soon 
irritated, but not easily broken. There was 
a freedom in his lease in two years more ; 
and to weather these two years, we re- 
trenched our expenses. "We lived very 
poorly. I was a dexterous ploughman, for 
my age ; and the next eldest to me w as a 
brother (Gilbert) who could drive the plough 
very well, and help me to thrash the corn. 
A novel-writer might perhaps ha\e viewed 
these scenes with some satisfaction, but so 
did not I ; my indignation yet boils at the 
recollection of the scoundrel factor's inso- 
lent, threatening letters, which used to 
set us all in tears." 

" This kind of life — the cheerless gloom 
of hermit, with the unceasmg toil of a 
galley-slave, brought me to my sixteenth 
year ; a little before which period I first 
committed the sin of rhyme. You know 
our country custom of coupling a man 
and woman together as partners in the 
labours of harvest. In my fifteenth autumn 
my partner was a bewitcliiiig creature a 
year younger than myself. jMy scarcity of 
English denies me the power of doing her 
justice in that language ; but you know 
the Scottish idiom — she was a honnie, 
sweet, sonsie lass. In short, she altoge- 
ther unwittingly to herself, initiated me m 
that delicious passion which, in spite of acid 
disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and 
book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the first 



BURNS' LIBRARY. 



II 



of human joys, our dearest blessing here 
below! IIijw she caught the contagion, I 
cannot tell ; you medical people talk much 
of infection from breathing the same air, the 
touch, &c., but I ne\ er expressly said 1 lovtd 
her. Indeed I did not know myself why I 
liked so much to loiter behind with her 
when returning iu the evening from our 
labours ; ^\ hy the tones of her voice made 
my heart-strings thrill like an •■Eolian harp ; 
and particidarly, why my pidse beat such a 
furious ratan when I looked and fingered 
over her little hand to pick out the cruel 
nettle-stings and thistles. Among her other 
love-inspiring qualities, she sang sweetly ; 
and it was her favourite reel to which I at- 
tempted giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. 
(8) I was not so presumptuous as to imagine 
that I coiUd make verses like printed ones, 
composed by men who had Greek and Latin ; 
but my girl sang a song, which was said 
to be composed by a small comitry laird's son, 
on one of his father's maids, with whom he 
was in love, and I saw no reason why I might 
not rhyme as well as he ; for, excepting that 
he could smear sheep, and cast peats, his 
father living in the moor-lands, he had no 
m>re scliolar -craft than myself." 

" Thus w ith me began love and poetry ; 
which at times have been my only, and till 
w.thin the last twelve months, have been my 
highest enjoyment. jMy father struggled on 
t.ll he reached the freedom in his lease, 
when he entered on a larger farm, about ten 
miles farther in the comitry. I'he nature of 
the bargain he made was such as to throw 
ft little ready money into his hands at the 
coramenccnient of his lease ; otherwise the 
affair would have been impracticable. For 
four years we lived comfortably here ; but a 
difference commencing between him and his 
landlord as to terms, after three years' tossing 
and whirling in the vortex of litigation, my 
father was just saved from the horrors of 
a jail by a consumption, which, after two 
years' promises, kindly stepped in, and 
carried him away, to where the wicked cease 
from trouhlbuj, and the xveary are at rest." 

" It is during the time that we lived on 
this farm that my little story is most 
eventfid. I was, at the beginning of this 
period, perhaps the most ungainly, awkward 
boy in the parish — no solitaire was less 
acquainted with the ways of the world. 
What I knew of ancient story was gathered 
from Salmon's and Guthrie's geographical 
grammars ; and the ideas I had formed of 
modern manners, of literature and criticism, 
1 got from the Spectator. These, with 
Pope's Works, some plays of Shakspeare, 



Tnll and Dickson on Agriculture, the Pan- 
theon, Locke's Essay on the Human Under- 
stanrling, Stackhouse's History of the Bible, 
Justice's British Gardener's Directory, 
Bayle's Lectures, Allan Ramsay's Works, 
Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, 
A Select Collection of English Songs, and 
Hervey's Jleditations, had formed the whole 
of my reading. The collection of songs was 
my vade mecum. I pored over them driving 
my cart, or walking to labour, song by song, 
verse by verse — carefidly noting the true, 
tender or sublime, from affectation and 
fustian. I am convinced I owe to this 
practice much of my critic craft, such as it 
is." 

"In my seventeenth year, to give my 
manners a brush, I went to a country 
dancing school. My father had an unac- 
countable antipathy against these meetings, 
and my going was, what to this moment I 
repent, in opposition to liis wishes. My 
father, as I said before, was subject to 
strong passions; from that instance of dis- 
obedience in me he took a sort of dislike to 
me, which I believe was one cause of the 
dissipation which marked my succeeding 
years. I say dissipation, comparatively with 
the strictness, and sobriety, and regularity, 
of Presbyterian country hfe; for though 
the Will o' ^^'isp meteors of thoughtless 
whim were almost the sole lights of my 
path, yet early ingrained piety and virtue 
kept me for several years afterwards within 
the line of innocence. The great misfortune 
of my life was to want an aim. I had felt 
early some stirrmgs of ambition, but they 
were the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops 
round the walls of his cave. I saw my 
father's situation entailed on me perpetual 
labour. The only two openings by which 
I could enter the temple of fortune, was 
the gate of niggardly economy, or the path 
of httle, chicaning bargain-making. The first 
is so contracted an ajierture, I never coidd 
squeeze myself into it; the last I always 
hated — there was contamination in the very 
entrance ! Thus abandoned of aim or view 
in hfe, with a strong appetite for sociability, 
as well from native hilarity as from a pride 
of observation and remark — a constitutional 
melancholy or hypochondriasm that made 
me fly to sohtude ; add to these incentives 
to social life, my reputation for bookish 
knowledge, a certain wild logical talent, 
and a strength of thought, something like 
the rudiments of good sense, and it will not 
seem surprising that I was generally a 
welcome guest where I visited, or any great 
wonder that, always w here two or three met 



12 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



together, there was I among them. But 
far bej^ond all otlier impulses of my heart, 
was un penchant a V adorable moltie du genre 
humain. My heart was completely tinder, 
and was eternally lighted up by some goddess 
or other ; and as in every other warfare in 
this world, my fortune was various, sometimes 
I was received with favour, and sometimes 
I was mortified with a repulse. At the plough, 
scythe, or reaphook, I feared no competitor, 
and thus I set absolute want at defiance ; 
and as I never cared farther for my labours 
than while I was in actual exercise, I spent 
the evenings in the way after my own heart. 
A country lad seldom carries on a love- 
adventure without an assisting confidant. 
I possessed a curiosity, zeal, and intrepid 
dexterity, that recommended me as a proper 
second on these occasions ; and, I dare say, 
I felt as much pleasure in being in the secret 
of half the loves of the parish of Tarbolton, 
as ever did statesman in knowing the in- 
trigues of half the courts of Europe. (9) 
The very goose-feather in my hand seems 
to know instinctively the well-worn path of 
my imagination, the favourite theme of my 
song, and is with difficulty restrained from 
giving you a couple of paragraphs on the 
love-adventures of my compeers, the humble 
inmates of the farm-house and cottage ; but 
the grave sons of science, ambition, or avarice, 
baptise these things by the name of follies. 
(10) To the sons and daughters of labour and 
poverty, they are matters of the most serious 
nature ; to them, the ardent hope, the stolen 
interview, the tender farewell, are tlie 
greatest and most delicious parts of their 
enjoyments." 

" Another circumstance in my life which 
made some alteration in my mind and man- 
ners was, that I spent my nineteenth sum- 
mer on a smuggling coast, a good distance 
from home, at a noted school, to learn 
mensuration, surveying, dialling, &c., in 
which I made a pretty good progress. But 
I made a greater progress in the knowledge 
of mankind. The contraband trade was at 
that time very successful, and it sometimes 
happened to me to fall in with those who 
carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot 
and roaring dissipation were till tliis time 
new to me ; but I was no enemy to social 
Ufe. Here, though I learnt to fill my glass, 
and to mix without fear in a drunken 
squabble, yet I went on with a high hand 
with my geometry, till the sun entered 
Virgo, a month which is always a carnival 
in my bosom, when a charming filette, who 
lived next door to the scliool, overset my 
trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent 



I from the sphere of my studies. I, however, 
I struggled on with my sines and co-sines for 
i a few days more ; but, stepping into the 
: garden one charming noon to take the sun's 
I altitude, there I met my angel, 
j ' Like Proserpine, gatliering flowers, 

Herself a fuirer flower ' 

I It was in vain to think of doing any more 
good at school. The remauiing week I 
staid I did nothing but craze the faculties of 
my soul about her, or steal out to meet 
her ; and the two last nights of my stay in 
the coimtry, had sleep been a mortal sin, 
the image of this modest and innocent girl 
had kept me guiltless." 

" I returned home very considerably im- 
proved. My reading was enlarged with the 
very important addition of Thomson's and 
Shenstone's Works. I had seen human 
nature in anew phasis ; and I engaged several 
of my school-fellows to keep up a literary 
correspondence with me. This improved me 
in composition. I had met with a collection 
of letters by the wits of Ciueen Anne's reign, 
and I pored over them most devoutly ; I 
kept copies of any of my own letters that 
pleased me ; and a comparison between 
them and the composition of most of my 
correspondents, flattered my vanity. I 
carried this whim so far, that though I had 
not three farthings' worth of business in 
the world, yet almost every post brought me 
as many letters as if I had been a broad 
plodding son of day-book and ledger." 

" My life flowed on much in the same 
course till my twenty-third year. Vit^e 
I' amour, et vive la hu(jntellc, were my sole 
principles of action. The addition of two 
more authors to my library gave me great 
pleasure ; Sterne and M'Kenzie — Tristram 
Shandy and The Man of Feeling — were 
my bosom favourites. Poesy was still a 
darling walk for my mind, but it was only 
indulged in according to the humour of the 
hour." 

" I had usually half a dozen or more pieces 
on hand ; I took up one or other, as it 
suited the momentary tone of the mind, and 
dismissed the work as it bordered on fatigue. 
My passions, when once lighted up, raged 
like so many devils, till they got vent in 
rhjTne ; and then the conning over my 
verses, like a spell, soothed all into quiet ! 
None of the rhymes of those days are in 
print, except ^\'inter, a Dirge, the eldest of 
my printed pieces ; The Death of Poor 
Mailie, John Barleycorn, and songs first, 
second, and third. (11) Song second was 
the ebullition of that passion which eudud 
the fore-mentioned school-business." 



LUCKLESS FAR5IING SPECULATION. 



13 



" My twenty-third year was to me an im- 
portant era. Partly tlirough whim, and partly 
that I wished to set about doing some- 
thing in life, I joined a flax-dresser in a 
neighbouring tonn (Irvine) to learn his 
trade. This was an unlucky affair. ]\Iy * * * ; 
and, to finish the whole, as we were giving 
a welcome carousal to the new-year, the shop 
took fire, and burnt to ashes,and I was left, 
like a true poet, not worth a sixpence." 

" I was obliged to give up this scheme : 
the clouds of misfortune were gathering 
thick round my father's head; and, what 
was worst of all, he was visibly far gone ui 
a consumption ; and, to crown ray distresses, 
a belle file whom I adored, and who had 
pledged her soul to meet me in the field of 
matrimony, jilted me, with peculiar circum- 
stances of mortification. Tlie finishing evil 
that brought up the rea) of this infernal file, 
was my constitutional melancholy being in- 
creased to such a degree, that for three 
months I was in a state of mind scarcely to 
be envied by the hopeless wretches who have 
got their mittimus — Depart from me, ye ac- 
Cu rsed ! " 

" From this adventure I learned something 
of a town life ; but the principal thing « Inch 
gave my mind a turn, was a friendship I 
formed with a young fellow, a very noble 
character, but a hapless son of misfortune. 
He was the son of a simple mechanic ; but 
a great man in the neighbourhood taking 
him imder his patronage, gave him a genteel 
education, with a view of bettering his situa- 
tion in life. The patron dying just as he 
was ready to launch out into the world, 
the poor fellow in despair went to sea, 
where, after a variety of good and ill for- 
tune, a little before I was acquainted with 
him, he had been set on shore by an Ame- 
rican privateer, on the wild coast of Con- 
naught, stripped of everything. I cannot 
quit this poor fellow's story without adding, 
that he is at this time master of a large 
'\\'est-Indiaman belonging to the Thames." 

" His mind was fraught with indepen- 
dence, magnanimity, and every manly virtue. 
I loved and admired him to a degree of 
enthusiasm, and of course strove to imitate 
him. In some measure I succeeded — I had 
pride before, but he taught it to flow in 
proper channels. His knowledge of the 
world was vastly superior to mine, and I 
was all attention to learn. He was the oidy 
man I ever saw who was a greater fool than 
myself, where woman was the presiding star ; 
but he spoke of illicit love with the levity 
of a sailor, which hitherto I had regarded 
with horror. (12) Here his friendship did 



me a mischief; and the consequence was 
that, soon after I resumed the plough, I 
WTOte the Poet's AVelcome. (13) JMy read- 
ing only increased, while in this towTi, by 
two stray volumes of Pamela, and one of 
Ferdinand Count Ealhom, which gave me 
some idea of novels. Rhyme, except some 
religious pieces that are in print, I had given 
up ; but meeting with Fergusson's Scottish 
Poems, I strung anew my wildly-sounding 
lyre with emulating vigour. When my 
father died, his all went among the hell- 
hounds that prowl in the kennel of justice ; 
but we made a shift to collect a little money 
in the family amongst us, with which to 
keep us together; my brother and I took a 
neighbouring farm. ]\Iy brother wanted 
my hair-brained imagination, as well as my 
social and amorous madness ; but, in good 
sense, and every sober qualification, he was 
far my superior." 

" I entered on this farm with a full reso- 
lution. Come, go to, I loill be wise ! I read 
farming books — I calculated crops — I at- 
tended markets — and, in short, in spite of 
the devil, and the world, and the fesh, I 
beheve I should have been a wise man ; 
but the first year, from unfortunately 
buying bad seed, the second, from a late 
harvest, we lost half our crops. This over- 
set all my wisdom, and I returned, like the 
dor) to his vomit, and the sow that was washed, 
to her wallowing in the mire." 

" I now began to be known in the neigh- 
bourhood as a maker of rhymes. The first 
of my poetic offspring that saw the light, 
was a burlesque lamentation on a quarrel 
between two reverend Calviuists, both of 
them dramatis ■persona; in my Holy Fair. 
I had a notion myself that the piece had 
some merit ; but to prevent the worst, I gave 
a copy of it to a friend who was very fond 
of such things, and told him that I coiUd 
not guess who was the author of it, but that 
I thought it pretty clever. With a certain 
description of the clergy, as well as laity, it 
met with a roar of applause. (14) Holy 
Willie's Prayer next made its appearance, 
and alarmed the kirk-session so much, that 
they held several meetings to look over their 
spirituiil artillery, if haply any of it might 
be pointed against profane WTiters. Un- 
luckily for me, my wanderings led me on 
another side, within point-blankshot of 
their heaviest metal. This is the unfor- 
tunate story that gave rise to my printed 
poem — The Lament. This was a most me- 
lancholy affair, which I cannot yet bear to 
reflect on, and had very nearly given me 
one or two of the principal quaMcutiuus for 



14 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



a place amonj those who have lost the 
chart, and mistaken the reckoning, of 
rationality. I gave up my part of the farm 
to my brother — in truth it was only nomi- 
nally mine — and made what little prepara- 
tion was in my power for Jamaica. But, 
before leaving my native country for ever, I 
resolved to publish my poems. I weighed 
my productions as impartially as was in ray 
power: I thought they had merit, and it 
was a delicious idea that I should be called 
a clever fellow even though it should never 
reach my ears — a poor negro-driver ; or per- 
haps a victim to that inhospitable clime, 
and gone to the world of spirits ! I can 
truly say, that pauvre inconnu as I then was, 
I had pretty nearly as high an idea of myself 
and of my works as I have at this moment, 
when the pubUc has decided in their favour. 
It ever was my opinion, that the mistakes 
and blunders, both in a rational and religious 
point of view, of which we see thousands 
daily guilty, are owing to their ignorance of 
themselves. To know myself had been all 
along my constant study. I weighed myself 
Jilone — I balanced myself with others — I 
watched every means of information, to see 
how much ground I occupied as a man and 
as a poet ; — I studied assiduously Nature's 
design in my formation — where the lights 
and shades in my character were intended. 
I was pretty confident my poems would 
meet with some applause (15) ; but, at the 
worst, the roar of the Atlantic would deafen 
the voice of censure, and the novelty of 
West-Indian scenes make me forget neg- 
lect. I threw off six hundred copies, of 
which I had got subscriptions for about 
three hundred and fifty. My vanity was 
highly gratified by the reception I met with 
from the pubhc; and, besides, I pocketed, 
all expenses deducted, nearly twenty pounds. 
This sum came very seasonably, as I was 
thinking of indenting myself, for want of 
money to procure my passage. As soon 
as I was master of nine guineas, the price 
of wafting me to the torrid zone, I took a 
steerage-passage in the first ship that was 
to sail from the Clyde ; for 

'Hungry ruin had me in the wind.' 
"I had been for some days skulking 
from covert to covert, under all the terrors 
of a jail ; as some ill-advised people had un- 
coupled the merciless pack of the law at my 
heels. I had taken the last farewell of my 
few friends ; my chest was on the road to 
Greenock ; I had composed the last song I 
shoidd ever measure in Caledonia — The 
Gloomy Night is Gathering Fast — when a 
letter firom Dr. Blacklock to a friend of 



mine overthrew all my schemes, by opening 
new prospects to my poetic ambition. The 
doctor belonged to a set of critics for whose 
applause I had not dared to hope. His 
opinion, that I would meet with encourage- 
ment in Edinburgh for a second edition, 
fired me so much, that away I posted for 
that city, without a single acquaintance, or 
a single letter of introduction. The baneful 
star that had so long shed its blasting influ- 
ence in my zenith, for once made a revolu- 
tion to the nadir; and a kind Providence 
placed me under the patronage of one of 
the noblest of men, the Earl of Glencairn. 
Oublie moi, Grand Dieu, si jamais je 
I'oublie ! " 

"1 need relate no farther. At Edinburgh 
I was in a new world ; I mingled among 
many classes of men, but all of them new to 
me, and 1 was all attention to catch the 
characters and the maimers Uoinrj as they 
rife. Whether I have profited, tune will 
show. * » * " 

"My most respectful compliments to 
Miss ^V. (16) Her very elegant and friendly 
letter I cannot answer at present, as my 
presence is requisite in Edinburgh, and I 
set out to-morrow." (17) 

At the period of our poet's death, his 
brother, Gilbert Burns, was ignorant that 
he had himself written the forgoing narra- 
tive of his life while in Ayrshire ; and 
having been applied to by Mrs. Dunlop for 
some memoirs of his brother, he complied 
with her request in a letter, from which the 
following narrative is chiefly extracted. 
When Gilbert Burns afterwards saw the 
letter of our poet to Dr. Moore, he made 
some annotations upon it, which shall be 
noticed as we proceed. 

Robert Burns was bom on the 2.ith day 
of January 1759, in a small house about 
two miles from the town of Ajt, and wthin 
a few hundred yards of AUoway church, 
which his poem of Tam o' Shanter has 
rendered immortal. (18) The name, which 
the poet and his brother modernised into 
Burns, was originally Bumes or Burness. 
Their father, William Bumes, was the son 
of a farmer in Kincardineshire, and had 
received the education common in Scotland 
to persons in his condition of life ; he could 
read and write, and had some knowledge of 
arithmetic. His family having fallen into 
reduced circumstances, he was compelled to 
leave his home in his nineteenth year, and 
turned his steps towards the south, in quest 
of a Uvelihood. The same necessity attended 
his elder brother Kobert. " I have often 



WILLIAM BURNES OR BURNS. 



15 



heard my father" (says Gilbert Bums, in 
his letter to Mrs. Dunlop) "describe the 
anguish of mind he felt when they parted 
on the top of a hill on the confines of their 
native place, each going oflf his several way 
ill searcli of new adventures, and scarcely 
knowing whither he went. My father un- 
dertook to act as a gardener, and shaped 
his course to Edinburgh, where he wrought 
hard when he could get work, passing 
through a variety of difficulties. Still, how- 
ever, he endeavoured to spare something 
for the support of his aged parent ; and 1 
recollect hearing him mention his having 
sent a bank-note for this purpose, when 
money of that kind was so scarce in Kin- 
cardineshire, that they scarcely knew how 
to employ it when it arrived." From Edin- 
burgh, William Burnes passed westward 
into the county of Ayr, where he engaged 
himself as a gardener to the laird of Fairly, 
with whom he lived two years ; then chang- 
ing his serxice for that of Crawford of 
Doonside. At length, being desirous of 
settling in life, he took a perpetual lease of 
seven acres of land from Dr. Campbell, 
physician in Ajt, with the view of com- 
mencing niirserjanan and public gardener; 
and, having built a house upon it with his 
own hands, married, in December, 1757, 
Agnes Brown, the mother of our poet, who 
stiU survives. (19) The first fruit of this 
marriage was Robert, the subject of these 
memoirs, born on the 25th of January, 1759, 
as has already been mentioned. Before 
William Burnes had made much progress 
in preparing his nursery, he was withdrawn 
from that undertaking by !Mr. Ferguson, 
who purchased the estate of Doonholm, in 
the immediate neighbourhood, and engaged 
hira as his gardener and overseer ; and this 
was his situation when our poet was born. 
Though in the service of Mr. Ferguson, he 
lived in his own house, his wife managing 
her family and her little dairy, which con- 
sisted sometimes of two, sometimes of three 
milch-cows ; and this state of unambitious 
content continued till the year 1706. His 
son Robert was sent by him in his sixth year 
to a school at Alloway Miln, about a mile 
distant, taught by a person of the name of 
Campbell ; but this teacher being in a few 
months appointed master of the workhouse 
at A>T, ^^'illiam Burnes, in conjunction \vith 
some other heads of families, engaged John 
Murdoch in his stead. The education of our 
poet, and of his brother Gilbert, was in com- 
mon ; and of their proficiency under Mr. Mui- 
doch, we have the following accoimt : — 
" With him we learnt to read EngUsh 

3 



tolerably well (20), and to write a little. 
He taught, us, too, the English grammar. 
I was too young to profit much from his 
lessons in grammar, but Robert made some 
proficiency in it — a circumstance of con- 
sisiderable weight in the unfolding of his 
genius and character; as he soon became 
remarkable for the fluency and correctness 
of his expression, and read the few books 
that came in his way with much pleasure 
and improvement : for even then he was a 
reader when he could get a book. Murdoch, 
whose library at that time had no great 
variety in it, lent him The Life of Hannibal, 
which was the first book he read (the school- 
books excepted), and almost the only one 
he had an opportunity of reading while he 
was at school; for 'ITie Life of Wallace, 
which he classes with it in one of his letters 
to you, he did not see for some years after 
wards, when he borrowed it from the black- 
smith who shod our horses." 

It appears that William Burnes approved 
himself greatly in the ser\ice of Air. Fer- 
guson, by his intelligence, industry, and 
integrity. In consequence of this, with a 
view of promoting his interest, Mr. Ferguson 
leased him a farm, of which we have the 
following account : — 

"The farm was upwards of seventy 
acres (21) (between eighty and ninety, En- 
glish statute measure), the rent of which 
was to be forty pounds annually for the 
first six years, and afterwards forty-five 
pounds. My father endeavoured to sell his 
leasehold property, for the purpose of stock- 
ing this farm, but at that time was unable, 
and Mr. Ferguson lent him a hundred pouuds 
for that purpose. He removed to his new 
situation at Whitsuntide, 17(16. It was, I 
think, not above two years after this, that 
Murdoch, our tutor and friend, left this part 
of the country ; and there being no school 
near us, and our little serNTces being useful 
on the farm, my father undertook to teach 
us arithmetic in the winter evenings, by 
candle-light ; and in this way my two eldest 
sisters got all the education they received. 
I remember a circumstance that happened 
at this time, which, though trifling in 
itself, is fresh in my memory, and may 
serve to illustrate the early character of my 
brother. Murdoch came to spend a night 
with us, and to take his leave when he 
was about to go into Carrick. He brought 
us, as a present and memorial of him, a 
small compeudiura of Enghsh Grammar, and 
the tragedy of Titus Andronicus. and, by 
way of passing the evening, he began to 
read the play aloud. We were all attention 



16 



LIFE OF BUKNS. 



for some time, till presently tlie whole party 
was dissolved in tears. A female in the 
play (I have but a confused remembrance of 
it) had her hands chopt off, and her tongrue 
cut out, and then was insultindy desired to 
call for water to wash her hands. At this, 
in an agony of distress, we with one voice 
desired he would read no more. My father 
observed, that if we woidd not hear it out. 
it would be needless to leave the play with 
us, Robert replied, that if it was left he 
would burn it. My father was going to 
chide him for this ungrateful return to his 
tutor's kindness; but Murdoch interfered, 
declaring that he liked to see so much 
sensibility; and he left the School for Love, 
a comedy, translated 1 think from the 
French, in its place." (22) j 

" Nothing," continues Gilbert Burns, ] 
" could be more retired than our general | 
manner of living at iMount Oliphant ; we I 
rarely saw any body but the members of our 
own family. There were no boys of our i 
own age, or near it, in the neighbourhood. | 
Indeed, the greatest part of the land in the 
vicinity was at that time possessed by ' 
shopkeepers, and people of that stamp, who 
had retired from business, or who kept their | 
farm in the coimtry, at the same time that I 
they followed business in town. M y father i 
was for some time almost the only com- i 
panion we had. He conversed familiarly on 
all subjects with us, as if we had been 
men ; and was at great pains, while we i 
accompanied him in the labours of the i 
farm, to lead the conversation to such I 
subjects as might tend to increase our I 
knowledge, or confirm us in virtuous habits. | 
He borrowed Salomon's Geographical Gram- I 
mar for us, and endeavoured to make us I 
acquainted with the situation and history I 
of the different countries of the world ; 
while, from a book-society in Ayr, he pro- 
cured for us the reading of Durham's Physico i 
and Astro-Theology, and Ray's Wisdom of [ 
God in the Creation, to give us some idea | 
of astronomy and natural history. Robert ! 
read all these books with an avidity and { 
industry scarcely to be ecpudled. My [ 
father had been a subscriber to Stackhouse's j 
History of the Bible, then lately pub- 
lished by James Meuros in Kilmarnock : 
from this Robert collected a competent 
knowledge of ancient liistory ; for no book 
was so voluminous as to slacken his in- 
dustry, or so antiquated as to damp his 
researches. A brother of my mother, who 
had lived with us some time, and had learned 
some arithmetic by our winter evening's 
caiiiUe, went into a bookseller's shop in Ayr^ 



to purchase The Ready Reckoner, or 
Tradesman's Sure Guide, and a book to 
teach him to WTite letters. Luckily, in 
place of The Complete Letter- Writer, he got 
by mistake a small collection of letters by 
the most eminent writers, with a few 
sensible directions for attaining an easy 
epistolary style. This book was to 
Robert of the greatest consequence. 
It inspired him with a strong desire to 
excel in letter-writing, while it furnished 
him with models by some of the first writers 
in our language." 

" My brother was about thirteen or 
fourteen, when my father, regretting that 
we wrote so ill, sent us, week about, during 
a summer quarter, to the parish school of 
Dalrymple, which, though between two or 
three miles distant, was the nearest to us, 
that we might have an opportunity of 
remedying this defect. About this time 
a bookish acquaintance of my father's pro- 
cured us a reading of two volumes of 
Richardson's Pamela, which was the first 
novel we read, and the only part of Richard- 
son's works my brother was acquainted with 
till towards the period of his commencing 
author. Till that time, too, he remained 
unacquainted with Fielding, with Smollett 
(two volumes of Ferdinand Count Fathom, 
and two volumes of Peregrine Pickle, ex- 
cepted), with Hume, with Eobertson, and 
almost all our authors of eminence of the 
later times. I recollect, indeed, my father 
borrowed a volume of English history from 
Mr. Hamilton of BourtreehiU's gardener. 
It treated of the reign of James I., and his 
unfortunate son Charles, but I do not know 
who was the author ; all that I remember 
of it is something of Charles's conversation 
with his children. About this time, Mur- 
doch, our former teacher, after having been 
in ditferent places in the country, and having 
taught a school some time in Dumfries, 
came to be the established teacher of the 
English language in Ayr, a circumstance of 
considerable consequence to us. The re- 
membrance of my father's former friend- 
ship, and his attachment to my brother, 
made him do every thing in his power for 
our improvement. He sent us Pope's 
works, and some other poetry, the first 
that we had an opportunity of reading, 
excepting what is contained in the English 
Collection, and in the volume of the 
Edinburgh Magazine for 1772; excepthig 
also those excellent new songs that are 
hawked about the country in baskets, or 
exposed on stalls in the streets." 

"The summer after we had been at 



BURNS STUDIES LATIV. 



17 



DalrNTiiple school, my father sent Robert 
to Ayr, to revise his Enghsh grammar, 
with his former teacher. He had been 
there only one week, when he was oblijced 
to retnrn to assist at tlie harvest. AMieu 
the harvest was over, he went back to 
school, where lie remained two weeks ; 
and tliis completes tlie account of his 
school education, excepting one summer 
quarter, some time afterwards, that he 
attended the parish school of Kirkoswald 
(wliere he lived with a brother of my 
mother's), to learn surveying." 

" During tlie two last weeks that he 
was with Murdoch, he himself was engaged 
in learning French (23), and he communi- 
cated the instructions he received to my 
brother, who, when he returned, brought 
home with him a French dictionary and 
grammar, and the Adventures of Telemachus 
iu the original. In a little while, by the 
assistance of these books, he had acquired 
such a knowledge of the language, as to 
read and understand any French author iu 
prose. This was considered as a sort of 
prodigy, and through the medium of Mur- 
doch, procured him the acquaintance of 
several lads in Ayr, who were at that 
time gabbling French, and the notice of 
some families, particularly that of Dr. 
Malcolm, where a knowledge of French 
was a recommendation." 

" Observing the facility with which he 
had acqmred the French language, Mr. 
Kobinson, tlie established writing-master 
in AjT, and INIr. Murdoch's particular 
friend, having himself acquired a con- 
siderable knowledge of the Latin language, 
by his own industry, without ever having 
learned it at school, advised Robert to make 
the same attempt, promising him every 
assistance iu his power. Agreeably to this 
advice, he purchased the Rudiments of the 
Latin Tongue, but finding this study dry 
and uninteresting, it was quickly laid aside. 
He frequently returned to his Ruchments 
on any little chagrin or disappointment, 
particularly in his love affairs ; but the 
Latin seldom predominated more than a 
day or two at a time, or a week at most. 
Observing, himself, the ridicule that would 
attach to this sort of conduct if it were 
known, he made two or three humorous 
stanzas on the subject, which I cannot now 
rccuUcct, but they all ended, 

' So I'll to my Latin again.' 

"Thus you see ^Ir. Murdoch was a 

principal means of my brother's improve- 

incMt. Worthy man! though foreign to 

my present purpose, I cannot take leave 





of him without tracing his future history. 
He continued for some years a respected 
and useful teacher at Ayr, till one evening 
that he had been overtaken in hquor, he 
happened to speak somewhat disresi)cctfully 
of Dr. Dalrymple, the parish minister, wiio 
had not paid him that attention to which 
he thought himself entitled. In Ayr he 
might as well have spoken blasphemy. He 
found it proper to give up liis appoint- 
ment. He went to London, where he still 
lives, a private teacher of French. He 
has been a considerable time man-ied, and 
keeps a shop of stationery wares." (24) 

"The father of Dr. Paterson, now phy- 
sician at Ayr, was, I believe, a native of 
Aberdeenshire, and was one of the estab- 
lished teachers in Ayr when my father 
settled in the neighbourhood. He early 
recognised my father as a fellow native of 
the north of Scotland, and a certain degree 
of intimacy subsisted between them during 
Mr. Paterson's life. After his death, his 
widow, who is a very genteel woman, and 
of great wortli, delighted in doing what she 
thought her husband would have wished 
to have done, and assiduously kept up her 
attentions to all his acquaintances. She 
kept alive the intimacy with our family, by 
frequently inviting my father and mother 
to her house on Sundays, when she met 
them at church." 

" When she came to know my brother's 
passion for books slie kindly ofi'ered us the 
use of her husband's library, and from her 
we got the Spectator, Pope's Translation of 
Homer, and several other books that were 
of use to us. Mount Oliphant, the form 
my father possessed in the parish of Ayr, 
is almost the very poorest soil I know of 
in a state of cultivation. A stronger 
proof of this I cannot give, than that, 
notwithstanding the extraordinary rise in 
the value of lands in Scotland, it was let, 
after a considerable sum laid out in im- 
proving it by the proprietor, a few years 
ago, fi\e pounds per annum lower thau the 
rent paid for it by my father, thirty years 
ago. i\ly father, in consequence of this, 
soon came into ditiicidties, which were 
increased by the loss of several of his cattle 
by accidents and disease. To the buffet- 
iugs of misfortune, we could only oppose 
hard labour and the most rigid economy. 
AAe lived very sparingly. For several years 
butcher's meat was a stranger iu the house, 
while all the members of the family exerted 
themselves to the utmost of their strength, 
and rather beyond it, in the labours of the 
farm. My brother, at the age of tliirteen 



18 



LIFE OF BUKNS. 



assisted in thrashing the crop of corn, and 
at fifteen was the principal labourer on the 
farm, for we had no hired servant, male 
or female. The anguish of mind we felt 
at our tender years, under these straits 
and ditiiculties, was very great. To think 
of our father growing old (for he was now 
above fifty), broken down with the long- 
continued fatigues of his life, with a wife 
and five other children, and in a declining 
state of circumstances — these reflections 
produced in my brother's mind and mine 
sensations of the deepest distress. I doubt 
not but the hard labour and sorrow of this 
period of his life, was in a great measure 
the cause of that depression of spirits with 
which Robert was so often afflicted through 
his whole life afterwards. At this time he 
was almost constantly afflicted in the even- 
ings with a dull headache, which, at a future 
period of his life, was exchanged for a 
palpitation of the heart, and a threatening 
of fainting and suffocation in his bed in 
the night-time. 

"By a stipulation in my father's lease, 
he had a right to throw it up, if he thought 
proper, at the end of every sixth year. He 
attempted to fix himself in a better farm 
at the end of the first six years, but failing 
in that attempt, he continued where he was 
for six years more. He then took the 
farm of Lochlea, of 130 acres, at the rent 
of twenty shillings an acre, in the parish of 

Tarbolton, of Mr. , then a merchant in 

Ayr, and now (1797) a merchant in Liver- 
pool. He removed to this farm on Whit- 
sunday, 1777, and possessed it only seven 
years. No writing had ever been made out 
of the conditions of the lease ; a mis- 
understanding took place respecting them ; 
the subjects in dispute were submitted to 
arbitration, and the decision involved my 
father's affairs in ruin. He lived to know 
of this decision, but not to see any execution 
in consequence of it. He died on the 
13th of Tebniary, 1784." 

" The seven years we lived in Tarbolton 
parish (exteudhig from the 19th to the 
2Gth of my brother's age), were not marked 
by much literary improvement ; but during 
this time, the foundation was laid of certain 
habits in my brother's character, which 
afterwards became but too prominent, and 
which mahce and envy have taken delight 
to enlarge on. Tliougli when young he 
was bashful and awkward in his intercourse 
with women, yet, when he approached man- 
hood, his attachment to their society became 
very strong, and he vyas constantly the 
wctim of r.ome fair enslaver. The symp- 



toms of his passion were often such aa 
nearly to equal those of the celebrated 
Sappho. I never indeed knew that he 
fainted, sunk, and died away; but the 
agitations of his mind and body exceeded 
anything of the kind I ever knew in real 
life. He had always a particular jealousy 
of people who were richer than himself, or 
who had more consequence in life. His 
love, therefore, rarely settled on persons of 
this description. When he selected any 
one out of the sovereignty of his good 
pleasure, to whom he should pay his par- 
ticular attention, she was instantly invested 
with a sufl!lcient stock of charms, out of 
the plentiful stores of his own imagination ; 
and there was often a great dissimilitude 
between his fair captivator, as she appeared 
to others, and as she seemed when invested 
in the attributes he gave her. One generally 
reigned paramount in his affections ; but as 
Yorick's affections flowed out toward Ma- 
dame de L — at the remise door, while the 
eternal vows of Eliza were upon him, so 
Robert was frequently encountering other 
attractions, which formed so many under- 
plots in the drama of his love. As these 
connections were governed by the strictest 
rules of virtue and modesty (from which 
he never deviated till he reached his 23rd 
year), he became an.vious to be in a situa- 
tion to marry. This was not likely soon to 
be the case while he remained a farmer, as 
the stocking of the farm required a sum of 
money he had no probability of being 
master of for a great while. He began, 
therefore, to think of trying some other line 
of life. He and I had for several years takea 
laiifl of my father for the purpose of raising 
flax on our o«ti account. In the course 
of selling it, Robert began to think of turning 
flax-dresser, both as being suitable to his 
grand view of settling in life, and as subser- 
vient to the flax raising. He iiccordingly 
WTOught at the business of a flax-dresser in 
Irvine for six months, but abandoned it at 
that period, as neither agreeing with his 
heallh nor inclination. In Irvine he had 
contracted some acquaintance of a freer 
manner of thinking and living than he had 
been used to, whose society prepared him 
for overleaping the bounds of rigid virtue 
which had hitherto restrained him. To- 
wards the end of the period under review 
(in his 26tli year), and soon after his fathei's 
death, he was furnished with the subject 
of his epistle to John Rankin. Durnig 
this period also he became a freemason, 
which was his first introduction to the life 
of a boon companion. Yet, uotwithstaud- 



BURNS AT MOSSGIEL. 



19 



ing the circumstances and the praise he 
has bestowed on Scotch drink (which seems 
to have misled his historians), I do not 
recollect, duriiis: these seven years, nor till 
towards the end of his conimenciuf^ author 
(when his growing celebrity occasioned his 
being often in company), to have ever 
seen him intoxicated; nor was he at all 
given to drinking. A stronger proof of the 
general sobriety of his conduct need not 
be required than what I am about to give. 
Paring the whole of the time we lived in 
the farm of Lochlea with my father, he 
allowed my brotlier and me such wages for 
our labour as he gave to other labour- 
ers, as a part of which, every article of 
our clothing manufactured in the fami!)', 
was regularly accounted for. MTien my 
father's affairs drew near a crisis, Robert 
and I took the farm of Mossgiel, consisting 
of 118 acres, at the rent of £90 per annum 
(the farm on which I live at present), from 
Mr. Gavin Hamilton, as an asylum for the 
family in case of the worst. It was stocked 
by the property and individual savings of 
the whole family, and was a joint concern 
among us. (25) Every member of the fomily 
was allowed ordinary wages for the labour he 
performed on the farm. (2G) My brother's 
allowance and mine wa? seven pounds per 
anninn each. And during the whole time 
this family concern lasted, which was for 
four years, as well as during the preceding 
period at Lochlea, his expenses never in 
any one year exceeded his slender income. 
As I was entrusted with the keeping of 
the family accounts, it is not possible that 
there can be any fallacy in this statement 
in my brother's favour. His temperance and 
frugality were every thing that could be 
wished." 

" The farm of Mossgiel lies very high, and 
mostly on a cold wet bottom. The first 
four years that we were on the farm were 
very frosty, and the spring was very late. 
Our crops in consequence were very un- 
protitable ; and, notwithstanding our utmost 
diHgence and economy, we fomid ourselves 
obliged to give up our bargam, with the loss 
of a considerable part of our original stock. 
It was during these four years that Robert 
formed his connexion with Jean Armoiu-, 
afterwards Mrs. Burns. This connexion 
cuidd no longer be concealed about the time 
we came to a final determination to quit 
the farm. Robert durst not engage with 
u. family in his poor unsettled state, but was 
anxious to shield his partner, by every 
means in his power, from the consequences 
of their imprudence. It was agreed, there. 



fore, between them, that they should make 
a legal acknowledgment of an irregular and 
private marriage ; that he should go to 
Jamaica to push his fortune ; and that she 
should remain with her father till it might 
please Providence to put the means of sup- 
porting a family in his power." 

" Mrs. Burns was a great favourite of her 
father's. The intimation of a marriage was 
the first suggestion he received of her real 
situation. He was in the greatest distress, 
and fainted away. The marriage did not 
appear to him to make the matter better. 
A husband in Jamaica appeared to him 
and his wife little better than none, and 
an effectual bar to any other prospects of 
a settlement in life that their daughter 
miglit have. They therefore expressed a 
wish to her, that the wTitten papers which 
respected the marriage should be cancelled, 
and thus the marriage rendered void. In 
her melancholy state, she felt the deepest 
remorse at having brought such hea\'y attlic- 
tion on parents that loved her so tenderly, 
and submitted to their entreaties. Their 
wish was mentioned to Robert. He felt 
the deepest anguish of mind. He offered 
to stay at home and provide for his wife and 
family in the best manner that his daily 
labours could pronde for them, that being 
the only means in his power. Even this 
offer they did not approve of; for humble 
as Miss Armour's station was, and though 
great her imprudence had been, she still, in 
the eyes of her partial parents, might look 
to a better connection than that with my 
friendless and imhappy brother, at that time 
without house or hiding-place. Robert at 
length consented to their wishes ; but his 
feehngs on this occasion were of the most 
distracting nature ; and the impressi<jn 
of sorrow was not effaced, till by a regular 
man-iage they were iuthssolubly united. In 
the state of mind which this separation pro- 
duced, he wished to leave the country as 
soon as possible, and agTced with Dr. 
Douglas to go out to Jamaica as an assistant 
overseer, or, as I believe it is called, a book- 
keeper on his estate. As he had not suffi- 
cient money to pay his passage, and the 
vessel in which Dr. Douglas was to procure 
a passage for him was not expected to sail 
for some time, ^Ir. Hamilton advised him to 
publish his poems in the mean time by sub- 
scription, as a likely way of getting a little 
money, to provide him more liljerally in 
necessaries for Jamaica. Agrcably to thid 
advice, subscription-bills were printed imme- 
diately, and the printing was commenced al 
Kilmarnock, his preparations going on at the 



20 



LIFE OF BUILNS. 



same time for his voyage. (27) The recep- 
tion, however, whicli liis poeiiia met mth in 
the world, and the friends they procured 
him, made liira change his resoUition of 
going to Jamaica, and lie was advised to go 
to Edinburgh to publish a second edition. 
On his return, in happier circumstances, he 
renewed his conuection with Mrs. Burns, 
and rendered it permanent by a union for 
life." 

Thus, madam, have I endeavoured to 
give you a simple narrative of the leading 
circumstances in my brother's early life. 
The remaining part he spent in Edinburgh, 
or in Dumfries-shire, and its incidents are as 
well known to you as to me. His genius 
having procured him your patronage and 
friendship, this gave rise to the correspond- 
ence between you, in which, I beUeve, his 
sentiments were delivered with the most 
respecttVd, but most imreservcd confidence, 
and which only terminated with the last 
days of his life." 

This narrative of Gilbert Burns may serve 
as a commentary on the preceding sketch 
of our poet's life by himself It will be 
seen that the distraction of mind which he 
mentions arose from the distress and sorrow 
in which he had involved his future wife. 
The whole circumstances attending this 
connexion are certainly of a very singular 
nature. (23) 

The reader will perceive, from the fore- 
going narrative, how much the children of 
William Burnes were indebted to their 
father, who was certainly a man of uncom- 
mon talents, though it does not appear that 
he possessed any portion of that vivid 
imagination for w'hich the subject of these 
memoirs was distinguished. In page 13, it 
is observed by our poet, that his fatiier had 
an unaccountable antipathy to dancing- 
schools, and that his attending one of these 
brought on him his displeasure and even 
dishke. On this observation Gilbert has 
made the follo\ving remark, which seems 
entitled to implicit credit :-^-" I wonder how 
Eobert could attribute to our father that 
lasting resentment of his going to a danc- 
ing-school against his will, of wliich he was 
incapable. 1 believe the truth was, that he, 
about this time, began to see the dangerous 
impetuosity of my brotlier's passions, as well 
as his not being amenable to comisel, which 
often irritated my father, and which he 
would naturally think a dancing-school was 
not likely to correct. But he was proud of 
Robert's genius, which he bestowed more 
expense in cnltivating than on the rest of 
the family, in tlie instances of semling liim 



to A)T and Kirkoswald schools; and he waa 
greatly delighted with his warmth of heart 
and his conversational powers. He had, 
indeed, that dislike of dancing-schools which 
Robert mentions, but so far overcame it 
during Robert's first month of attendance, 
that he allowed all the rest of the family that 
were fit for it to accompany him during 
the second month. Roljert excelled in 
dancing, and was for some time distractedly 
foud of it." 

'• In the original letters to Dr. Moore, our 
poet described his ancestors as "renting 
lands of the noble Keiths of Marischal, and 
having had the honour of sharmg their 
fate." " I do not," continues he, " use the 
word honour with any reference to political 
principles ; loi/al and ditiloi/al, I take to be 
merely relative terms, in that ancient and 
formidable court, known in this country 
by the name of Club-law, where the right 
is always with the strongest. But those 
who dare welcome ruin, and shake hands 
with infamy, for what they scarcely believe 
to be the cause of their God, or their 
king, are, as J\iark Antony says in Shaks- 
pcare of Brutus and Cassius, honourable 
itien. I mention this circumstance, because 
it threw my father on the world at large." 

This paragraph has been omitted in print- 
ing the letter, at the desire of Gilbert Burns; 
and it would have been mmecessary to 
have noticed it on the present occasion, 
had not several manuscript copies of that 
letter been in circulation. " I do not know," 
observed Gilbert Burns, "how my brother 
could be misled in the account he has given 
of the Jacobitism of Ids ancestors. I believe 
the Earl Marischal forfeited his title and 
estate in 1715, before my father was born; 
and, among a collection of parish-certificates 
in his posession, I have read one, stating 
that the bearer had no concern in the late 
wicked rebellion." On the information of one, 
who knew William Burnes soon after he 
arrived in the country of A)t, it may be 
mentioned, that a report did prevail that he 
had taken the field with the young Cheva- 
lier — a report which the certificate mentioned 
by his son was, perhaps, intended to counter- 
act. Strangers from the north, in the low 
country of Scotland, were in those days liable 
to suspicions of having been, in the 
familiar phrase of the comitry, "Out in 
the forty-five" (1745), especially when they 
had any stateliness or reserve about them, 
as was the case with \Mlliam Burnes. It 
may easily be conceived, that our poet 
would cherish tlie belief of his father's hav- 
ing beeu engaged in the daring enterprise 



TUE ORIGINAL OF THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 



21 



of Prince Charles Edward. The g-enerous 
attaclinient, tlie heroic \ almir, and the final 
misfortimes of the adherents of the house 
of Stuart, touched with sympathy his youth- 
ful and ardent mind, and influenced his 
orisrinal political opinions. (29) 

Tlie father of oiur poet is described by 
one who knew him towards the latter end 
of his life, as above the common stature, 
thin, and bent with labour. His counte- 
nance was serious and exprcssi\e, aud the 
scanty locks on his head were grey. He 
was of a religious turn of mind, and, as 
is usual amon^' the Scottish peasantry, a 
good deal conversant in speculative theology. 
There is, in Gilbert's hands, a little mamial 
of religious belief, in tlie form of a dialogue 
between a father and his son, composed 
by him for the use of his children, in 
tt hich the benevolence of his heart seems to 
have led him to soften the rigid Calvinism 
of the Scotch church, into something ap- 
proaching to Arminianism. He was a 
devout man, and in the practice of calling 
his family together to join in prayer. It is 
known that the following exquisite picture, 
in the Cotter's Saturday Night, represents 
\Villiam Burnes and his family at their 
evening devotions: — 

"The cheerful supper done, with serious 

face, [wide ; 

They, round the incrle (30\ form a cirolo 

The sii-e turns o'er, with i<atriarchal grace, 

The biLT hal/-lVMe, once his father's pride: 

Ilis bonnet rcv'rently is laid aside, [bare ; 

Ilis lyart haft'cts ("31) wearing: thin and 

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion 

glide, , [care ; 

lie wales (32) a portion with judicious 

And ' Let us worship God ! " he says with 

solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple 
STuise ; [aim : 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest 
rerhaps Dundee's (33) wild warblina: mea- 
sures rise, [name ; 
Orjdaintive ]\rf)rf)/rs {Zi\ worthy of the 
Or noble F/yiii (35) beets (3G) the heavenly 
flame, 
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays ; 
Compav'd with these Italian trills"are"tame, 
Tiie tickled ears no heart-felt raptures 
raise ; [praise. 
No unison have they with our Creator's 
The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 
(37) 
Itow.Vbram was the friend of God on high: 
Or Moses bade eternal welfare wage 

With Anialek's unaracious proi^eny ; 
Or how the royal bard did irroaniiii; lie, [ire; 
liencath the strolie of Ileaven's avenging 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
Or rapt Isaiah wild seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 



Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
How guiltless blood for guilty man wad 
shed ; [name. 

How he who bore in heaven the second 
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head, 
How his first followers and servants sped ; 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a 
land ; 
How he, who lone in Patinos banished. 
Saw in the sun a uiiyhty angel stand. 
And heard in'eat Babylon's doom pronounced, 
by Heaven's conmiand ! 
Then kneeling down to heaven's eternal 
King, [prays ; 

Tlie saint, the father, and the husband, 
' Hope springs exulting on triumphant 
wing,' [days ; 

That thus they all shall meet in future 
There ever bask in uncreated rays. 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear. 

Together hymning their Creator's jiraise, 

111 such society, yet still more dear ; 

While circling time moves round in an eternal 

sphere. 

• • • • • 

Then homeward all take off their several 
way; 
The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent pair their secret homage pay. 

And offer up to Heaven the warm request: 
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous 
nest, 
And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best. 
For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine 
preside!" 

Of a family so interesting as that which 
inhabited the cottage of William Burnes, and 
particularly of the father of the family, the 
reader will perhaps be ^villing to listen to 
some farther account. What follows is given 
by one already mentioned with so much 
honour in the narrative of Gilbert Burns, 
Sir. Murdoch, the preceptor of our poet, 
who, in a letter to Josepli Cooper ^^'alker, 
Esq., of Dublin, author of tlie Historical 
^Memoirs of the Irish Bards, and of tiie His- 
torical Jlemoir of the Italian Tragedy, thus 
expresses himself : — 

"SiK. — I was lately favoured with a letter 
from our worthy friend, the Rev. ^^'m. 
Adair, in which he requested me to com- 
municate to you whatever particulars I 
could recollect concerning Robert Burns, 
the AvTshire poet. My business being at 
present multifarious and harassing, my 
attention is consequently so much di\ided, 
and I am so little in the habit of express- 
ing my thoughts on paper, that at this 
distance of time I can give but a very im- 
perfect sketch of the early part of the life 
of that extraordinary genius, with which 
alone I am acquainted. 

^\'illiaIn Burnes, the father of the poet, 



9.'> 



LIFE OF BUKNS. 



was bom in the shire of Kincardine, and 
bred a gardener. He liad been settled in 
Ayrshire ten or twelve years before I 
knew him, and had been in the service of 
Mr Crawford of Doonside. He was afterwards 
employed as a gardener and overseer by 
Provost Ferguson of Doonholm, in the parish 
of AUoway, which is now united with that 
of Ayr. In this parish, on the roadside, a 
Scotch mile and a half from the towir of Ayr, 
and half a mile from the bridge of Doon, 
Willian Burnes took a piece of land, consist- 
ing of about seven acres ; part of which he 
laid out in garden groiuid, and part of 
which he kept to gTaze a cow, &c., still 
continuing in the employ of Provost Fer- 
guson. Upon this little farm was erected 
a humble dwelling, of which William Burnes 
was the architect. It was, with the excep- 
tion of a httle straw, literally a tabernacle 
of clay. In this mean cottage, of which 
I myself was at times an inhabitant, I 
really believe there dwelt a larger portion 
of content than in any palace in Europe. 
The Cotter's Saturday Night wU] give some 
idea of the temper and manners that pre- 
vailed there." 

"In 1705, about the middle of March, 
Mr. W. Burnes came to A>t, and sent to 
tlie school where I was improving in writ- 
ing, under my good friend Mr. liobinson, 
desiring that I would come and speak to 
him at a certain inn, and bring my writing j 
book with me. This was immediately com- i 
plied with. Having examined my writing, 
he was pleased with it — you will readily I 
allow he was not ditticidt — and told me 
that he had received very satisfactory infor- 
niiuion of jNIr. Tennant, the master of the 
English scliool, concerning my impro\cuient 
in English, and in his method of teach- 
ing. In the month of ilay following, I was 
engaged by Mr. Burnes, and four of his 
neighbours, to teach, and accordingly began 
to teach the school at Allow'ay, which was 
situated a few yards from the argillaceous 
fabric above-mentioned. My live employers 
undertook to board me by turns, and to 
make up a certain salary, at the end of the 
year, provided my quarterly payments from 
the difl'erent pupils did not amount to that 
sum." 

" My pupil, Robert Burns, was then be- 
tween six and seven years of age ; his 
preceptor about eighteen. Robert, and his 
younger brother, Gilbert, had been grounded 
U little in English before they were put 
under my care. They both made a rapid 
progress in reading, and a tolerable progress 
in writing. In reading, dividing words into 



syllables byrule, spelling without book, pass- 
ing sentence, &c., Robert and Gilbert 
were generally at the upper end of the class, 
even when ranged with boys by far their 
seniors. The books most commonly used 
in the school were the Spelling Book, the 
New Testament, the Bible, Mason's Collec- 
tion of Prose and Verse, and Fisher'3 
English Grammar. They committed to 
memory the hymns, and other poems of 
that collection, with uncommon facility. 
This facility was partly owing to the method 
pursued by their father and me in instruct- 
ing them, which was, to make them tho- 
roughly acquainted with the meaning of 
every word in each sentence that was 
be committed to memory. By the bye, this 
may be easier done, and at an earlier 
period, than is generally thought. As soon 
as they were capable of it, I taught them 
to turn verse into its natural prose order ; 
sometimes to substitute synonymous ex- 
pressions for poetical words, and to supply 
all the ellipses. These, you know, are the 
means of knowing that the pupil understands 
his author. These are excellent helps to the 
arrangement of words in sentences, as well 
as to a variety of expression." 

" Gilbert always appeared to me to pos- 
sess a more lively imagination, and to be 
more of the wit, than Robert. I attempted 
to teach them a httle church-mu^ic. Here 
they were left far behind by all the re=t 
of the school. Robert's ear, in particular, 
was remarkably dull, and his voice ua- 
tunable. It was long before I could get 
them to distinguish one tune from another. 
Robert's comiteuance was generally grave, 
and expressive of a serious, coutemjilative, 
and thoughtful mind. Gilbert's face said. 
Mirth, with thee I mean to lice ; and cer- 
taiidy, if any person who knew the two boys 
had been asked which of them was the 
most likely to court the muses, he woidd 
surely never have guessed that Robert had 
a propensity of that kind." 

"In the year 17(37, Mr. Burnes quitted 
his mud edifice, and took possession of a 
farm (Mount Oliphant), of Ins owii improv- 
ing, while in the service of Provost Fergu- 
son. This farm being at a considerable 
distance from the school, the boys could 
not attend regularly ; and some changes 
taking place among the other supporters of 
the school, I left it, having continued to 
conduct it for nearly two years and a half." 

"In the year 1772, I was appointed 
(being one of five candidates who were 
exammed) to teach the English school at 
Ayr; and in 1773, Robert Burns came to 



BURNS STUDIES FRFNCIl. 



23 



board and lodsje with m?, for the purpose of alwiiys rational information in view, had 

revising English urarainar, &c., that he still some questions to projiose to my 

might be better qnaliiied to instrnct his more learned friends, upon moral or natural 

brothers and sisters at home. He was now philosophy, or some sucii interesting subject, 

with me day ami night, in school, at all Mrs. Burnes, too, was of the party as much 
meals, and in all my walks. At the end of i as possible; 
one week, I told him, that, as he was now 



pretty much master of the parts of speech, 
&c., I should like to teacli him something 
of Fi'cnch pronunciation ; that when he 
shoidd meet wtli the name of a French 
town, ship officer, or the like, in the news- 
papers, he might be able to pronounce it 
something like a French word. Robert was 
glad to hear this proposal, and immedi- 
ately we attacked the French wth good 
courage." 

" Now there was little else to be heard 
but the declension of noims, the con- 
jugation of verbs, <S:c. When walking 
together, and even at meals, 1 was con- 
stantly telling him the names of different 
objects, as they presented themselves, in 

French ; so that he was hourly laving in i „ ■ i ■, n-n- r, v. r f 

„ ,' , , , ;• r ..1 ' considered U illiara Burnes as by far tl 

a stock or words, and sometmies little i i ,. ^ »i, i *i ^ r i 



I 'But still the house affairs would draw her 
j thence, [iiatch, 

; Which ever as she could with haste dis- 
! Slie'd come again, and with a greedy ear, 
I Devour up their diocour>e' — 

\ and particularly that of her husband. At 

; all times, and in all companies, she listened 

j to him with a more marked attention than 

; to any body else. When luider the neces- 

I sity of being absent wliile he was speak- 

' ing, she seemed to regret, as a real loss, that 

; she had missed what the good man had 

I said. Tliis worthy woman, Agnes Brown, 

I had the most thorough esteem for her hus- 

I band of any woman I ever knew. I can 

i by no means wonder that she highly 

i esteemed him ; for I myself have always 



, T 1 i 1 » 1 1. 1 1 I'cst ot the human race that ever I had 

phrases. In short, he took such pleasure in L,, , ^ i • • i • , 

1 • 1 T • ^ 1 ■ It ^ -A. ■ \ the pleasure of being acouamted with — 

learning, and I m teaching, that it is , ' ., ,' ' . , , 

J-,,; ,?\ 1 ■ 1 ,? 1 T i. i"id many a worthy character 1 have known, 

difhcult to say which of the two was most i ■' ■' 

zealous iu the business ; and about the end of | 

the second week ofaur study of the French, | 

we began to read a little of the Adventures 



of Telemachus, in Fenelon's owii words." 

"But now the plains of Jlouiit Oliphant 
began to whiten, and > Robert was sum- 
moned to relimpiish the pleasing scenes that 
surround the grotto of Calypso, and, armed 
with a sickle, to seek glory by signalising 
himself ill the field of Ceres — and so he 
did ; for, although but about fifteen, I was 



many a worthy 
I can cheerfully join with Robert ia the last 
line of his epitaph (borrowed from Gold- 
smith), 
' And ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side.' 

•' lie was an excellent husband, if I may 
judge from his assiduous attention to the 
ease and com'brt of his worthy partner, 
and from her affectionate behaviour to 
him, as well as her unwearied attention tu 
the duties of a mother." 

" lie was a tender and affectionate father ; 



told that he performed the work of a man." he took pleasure in leading his children in 
" Thus was I deprived of my very apt pupil, I the path of virtue, not in driving them, as 
and consequently agTceable comjianion, at ; some parents do, to the performance of 
tiic end of three weeks, one of which was : duties to which they tliemselves are averse, 
spent entirely in the study of English, and | He took care to find fault but very seldom; 
tlie other two chiefiy in that of French. '• and therefore, when he did rebuke, he was 
I did not, however, lose sight of him, but i listened to with a kind of reverential awe. 
was a frequent visitant at his father's house, ; A look of disapprobation was felt ; a re- 
when I had my half holiday ; and very proof was severely so ; and a strip with 
often went, accompanied with one or two > the tawz, even on the skirt of the coat, 
persons more intelligent than myself, that ■ gave heart-felt pain, produced a loud lameii- 
good William Burnes might enjoy a mental i tation, and brought forth a flood of tears." 
feast. Then the labouring oar was shifted I " He had the art of gaining the esteem 
to some other hand. The father and the ' and goodrtill of those that were labourers 
Bon sat down with us, when we enj.)yed a ' under liim. I think I never saw him angry 
conversation, wherein solid reasoning, seiisi- > but twice ; the one time, it was with tiie 
ble remark, and a moderate seasoning of i foreman of the band, for not reaping the 
jocularity, were so nicely blended, as to i field as he was desired ; and the other 
render it palatable to all parties. Robert i time, it was with an old man, for using 
had a hundred questions to a^k me about smutty inucudocs and double enlendres. 
the I'Veiich, &c. ; and the father, who had \ ^^'ere every foul-mouthed old man to receive 



24 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



a reasonable elirck in this way, it would be , 
to the advantage of the rising generation. 
As he was ac no time overbearing to i 
inferiors, lie was equally incapable of that j 
passive, pitifid, paltry spirit, that induces . 
8orae people to keep booing and booing in the ] 
presence of a greac man. He always treated 
superiors with a becoming respect ; but he j 
never gave the smallest encouragement to ^ 
firistocratical arrogance. But i must not | 
pretend to give you a description of all the i 
manly qualities, the rational and Christian ' 
virtues, of the venerable William Burncs. j 
Time would fail me. I shall only add i 
that he carefully practised every knosvn j 
duty, and avoided every thing that was i 
criminal ; or, in the apostle's words. Herein 
did he exercise himself, in livinrj a life void 
of ojj'ence toward.^ God and towards men. 
.Oh for a world of men of such dispositions 1 i 
We should then have no wars. I have often i 
wished, for the good of mankind, that it i 
were as customary to honour and i)erpetuate 
the memory of those who excel in moral | 
rectitude as it is to extol what are called \ 
heroic actions : then would the mausoleum | 
of the friend of ray youth overtop and 
surpass most of the monuments I see in 
Westminster Abbey." 

" Althuugh I cannot do justice to the cha- 
racter of this worthy man, yet you will 
perceive, from these few particulars, what 
kind of person had the principal hand in the 
education of our poet. He spoke the 
English language with more propriety (both 
with respect to diction and pronunciation) 
than any man I ever knew with no greater 
advantages. This had a very good effect 
on the boys, who began to talk, and reason 
like men, much sooner than their neighbours. 
I do not recollect any of their contempo- 
raries, at my httle seminary, who afterwards 
made any great degree as literary charac- 
ters, except Dr. Tennant, who was chaplain 
to C(jlonel f ullartou's regiment, and who is 
now in the East Indies. He is a man of 
genius and learning ; yet affable, and free 
from pedantry." 

" Mr. Burnes, in a short time, found that 
he had overrated Mount Oliphant, and 
th.at he could not rear his numerous family 
upon it. After being there some years, he 
removed to Lochlea, in the parish of Tar- 
bolton, where, 1 believe, Robert wrote most 
of his poems." 

" But here, sir, you will permit me to pause. 
I can teU you but little more relative to our 
poet. 1 shall, however, m my next, send 
you a cony of oue of his letters to me, 
about the year 1783. 1 received one since. 



but it is mislaid. Please remember me, in 
the ijest manner, to my worthy friend Mr. 
Adair, when you see him, or write to him." 
"Hart Street, Bloomsbury Square, 
London, Feb. 22, 1799." 

As the narrative of Gilbert Burns was 
written at a time when he was ignorant of 
the existence of the preceding narrative of 
his brother, so this letter of Mr. Murdoch 
was written without his having any know- 
ledge that either of his pupils had been 
employed on the same subject. The three j 
relations serve, therefore, not merely to 
illustrate, but to authenticate each other. 
Though the information they convey might 
have been presented within a shorter com- 
pass, by reducing the whole into one 
unbroken narrative, it is scarcely to be 
doubted, that the intelligent reader will be 
far more gratilied by a sight of these original 
documents themselves. 

[The poet mentions in his own narrative 
his visit in his nineteenth summer to Kirk- 
oswald parish, and his mingling in scenea 
of dissipation there amongst the Carrick 
smugglers. The following additional par- 
ticulars respecting this period of his life will 
probably be interesting : they were col- 
lected by the present editor, but appeared 
originally in Chambers Edinburgh Journal. 

If Burns be correct in stating that it was 
his nineteenth summer which lie spent in 
Kirkoswald parish, the date of his residence 
there must be 1777. 'What seems to have 
suggested his going to Kirkoswald school, 
was the connection of his mother with 
that parish. She was the daughter of 
Gilbert Brown, farmer of Craigenton, in 
this parochial division of Carrick, in which 
she had many friends still living, par- 
ticularly a brother, Samuel Brown, who 
resided, in the miscellaneous capacity of 
farm-labourer, iisherman, and dealer in wool, 
at the farm-house of Ballochneil, above a 
mile from the village of Kirkoswald. This 
Brown, though not the farmer or guidman 
of the place, was a person held to be 
in creditable circumstances in a district 
where the distinction between master and 
servant was, and still is, by no means great. 
His wife was the sister of Niven, the 
tenant ; and he lived in the " chamber " 
or better portion of the farm-house, but 
was now a widower. It was with Brown 
that Burns lived during his attendance at 
Kirkoswald school, walking every morning 
to the village where the little seminary 
of learning was situated, and retm-ning at 
night. 



HUGH RODGER THE SCHOOLMASTER. 



25 



The district into wliirh the yoiinsr poet of 
Kyle was thus thro^^ai, lias many features of 
a "remarl(able kind. Thoujcli situated on the 
shore of the Firth of Clyde, where steamers 
are every hour to be seen on their passage 
between eulii;htcned and busy cities, it is to 
tliis day the seat of simple and patriarchal 
usages. Its laud, composed of bleak green 
uplands, partly cultivated and partly pas- 
toral, was, at the time alluded to, occupied 
by a generation of primitive small farmers, 
many of whom, while preserving their native 
simplicity, had superadded to it some of 
the irregular habits arising from a concern 
in the trade of introducing contraband 
goods on the Carrick coast. (38) Such 
dealings did not prevent superstition from 
flourishing amongst them iu a degree of 
vigour of which no district of Scotland 
now presents any example. The parish 
has six miles of sea coast ; and the village, 
where the church and school are situated, is 
in a sheltered situation about a couple 
of miles inland. 

The parish schoolmaster, Hugh Rodger, 
enjoyed great local fame as a teacher of 
mensuration and geometry, and was much 
employed as a jiractical land surveyor. On 
the day when Burns entered at the school, 
aiioti er youth, a little younger than himself, 
also entered. This was a native of the 
neighbouring towni of Maybole, who having 
there comiileted a course of classical study, 
was now sent by his father, a respectable 
shopkeeper, to acquire arithmetic and men- 
suration under the famed mathematician 
of Kirkos\^ald. It was then the custom, 
when pupils of their age entered at a 
school, to take the master to a tavern, and 
implement the engagement by treating him 
to some liquor. Burns and the JIa.\bole \ 
youth, accordingly united to reirale Rodger 
with a potation <if ale, at a public house in 
the village, kept by two geiulewomanly sort 
of persons named Kennedy — Jean and 
Anne Kennedy— the former of whom was I 
destined to be afterwards married to im- i 
mortal verse, under the appellation of [ 
Kirklon Jean, ajid whose house, in con- [ 
sidcration of some pretensions to birth or | 
style above the common, was always called I 
" the Leddies' House." From that time, i 
Burns and the iSIaybole youth became ' 
intiiiiate friends, insomuch, that, during this | 
summer, neither had any companion with | 
whom he was more fret|nently in company | 
than with the other. Burns was only at the 
village during school hours ; but v hen his | 
friend Willie returned to the paternal dome 
M. Saturday nights, the poet would accom- | 



pany him, and stay till it was time for both 
to come back to school on Monday morning. 
There was also an interval between the 
morning and afternoon meetings of the 
school, which the two youths used to siiend 
together. Instead of amusing themselves 
with ball or any other sport, like the rest of 
the scholars, they would take a walk by 
themselves in the outskirts of the village, 
and converse on subjects calculated to im- 
prove their minds. By and bye, they fell 
upon a plan of holding disputations or argu- 
ments on speculative questions, one taking 
one side, and the other the other, without 
much regard to their respective opinions on 
the point, whatever it might be, the whole 
object being to sharpen their intellects. 
They asked several of their companions to 
come and take a side in these debates, but 
not one would do so ; they only laughed at 
the young philosophers. The matter at 
length reached the ears of the master, whoj 
however skilled in mathematics, possessed 
but a narrow understanding and little gene- 
ral knowledge. A\'ith all the bigotry of the 
old school, he conceived that this superero- 
gatory employment of his piqiils was a piece 
of absurdity, and he resolved to correct them 
in it. One day, therefore, when the school 
was fully met, and in the midst of its usual 
business, he went up to the desk where 
Burns and Willie were sitting opposite to 
each other, and began to advert in sarcastic 
terms to what he had heard of them. They 
had become great debaters, he understood, 
and conceived themselves tit to settle afl'airs 
of importance, which wiser heads usually let 
alone. He hoped their disputations would 
not ultimately become quarrels, and that 
they would never think of coming from 
words to blows ; and so forth. The jokes of 
schoolmasters always succeed amongst the 
boys, who are too glad to find the awful 
man iu any thing like good humour, to 
question either the moral aim or the j)oint 
of his wit. They therefore, on this occa- 
sion, hailed the master's remarks with hearty 
peals of laughter. Nettled at this, "W iihe 
resolved he w onld " speak up " to Rodger ; 
but first he asked Burns in a whisper if he 
would support him, which Burns promised 
to do. lie then said that he was sorry to 
find that Robert ami he had given olTcnre ; 
it had not been intended. And uideed he 
had expected that the master would have 
been rather pleased to know of their endea- 
vours to improve their minds. He could 
assure him that such improvement was the 
sole object they had in view. Rodger 
sneered at the idea of their improving their 



26 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



minds by nonsensical discussions, and con- 
temptuously asked what it was they disjjuted 
about. Willie replied, that generally there 
was a new subject every day ; that he could 
not recollect all that had come under their 
attention ; but the question of to-day had 
been — " Whether is a great general or a re- 
spectable merchant the most valuable mem- 
ber of society ? " The dominie laughed 
outrageously at what he called the silliness 
of such a question, seeing there could be no 
doubt for a moment about it. " Well," said 
Burns, " if you think so, I will be glad if you 
take any side you please, and allow me to 
take the other, and let us discuss it before 
the school." Rodger most unwisely assented, 
and commenced the argument by a flourish 
ill favour of the general. Burns answered 
by a pointed advocacy of the pretensions of 
the merchant, and soon had an evident su- 
periority over his preceptor. The latter 
replied, but without success. Ilis hand was 
observed to shake; then his voice trembled; 
and he dissolved the house in a state of 
vexation pitiable to behold. In this anecdote, 
who can fail to read a prognostication of 
future eminence to the two disputants? The 
one became the most illustrious poet of his 
cmntry; and it is not unworthy of being 
mentioned in the same sentence, that the 
oher advanced, through a career of success- 
ful industry in his native town, to the pos- 
session of a large estate in its neighbourhood, 
and some share of the honours usually 
reserved in this country for birth and aristo- 
cratic coimection. 

The coast in the neighbourhood of Burns's 
residence at Ballochneil presented a range of 
rustic characters upon whom his genius was 
destined to confer an extraordinary interest. 
At the farm of Shanter, on a slope overlook- 
ing the shore, not far from Turnberry Castle, 
lived Douglas Graham, a stout hearty speci- 
men of the Carrick farmer, a little addicted 
t3 smuggling, but withal a worthy and 
upright member of society, aiul a kiud- 
natured man. He had a wife named Helen 
M'Taggart, who was unusually addicted to 
superstitious beliefs and fears. The steading , 
where this good couple lived is now no more, 
for the farm has been divided for the in- 
crease of two others in its neighbourhood ; 
but genius has given them a perennial ex- 
istence in the tale of Tam o'Shantcr, where 
their characters are exactly delineated under 
the respective appellations of Tam and 
Kate. * * * * 

At Ballochneil, Burns engaged heartily in 
the sports of leaping, dancing, WTesthng, 
putting (throwing) the stone, aiid others of 



the like kind. Ilis innate thirst for distinc- 
tion and superiority was manifested in these 
as in more important afl'airs ; but though he 
was possessed of great strength, as well aa 
skill, he could never match bis young bed- 
fellow, John Niven. Obliged at last to 
acknowledge himself beat by this person in 
bodily warfare, he had recourse for amends 
to a spiritual mode of contention, and would 
engage young Niven in an argument about 
some speculative question, when, of course, 
he invariably floored his antagonist. His 
satisfaction on these occasions is said to 
have been extreme. One day, as he was 
walking slowly along the street of the village 
in a manner customary to him, with his eyes 
bent on the ground, he was met by the 
Misses Biggar, the daughters of the parish 
pastor. He would have passed without 
noticing them, if one of the young ladies 
had not called him by name. She then 
ralhed him on his inattention to the fair 
sex, in preferring to look to\iards the inani- 
mate ground, instead of seizing the oppor- 
tunity afforded him of indulging in the 
most invaluable privilege of man, that of 
beholding and conversing with the ladies. 
" Madam," said he, " it is a natural and 
right thing for man to contemplate the 
ground, from whence he was taken, and for 
woman to look upon and observe man, from 
whom she was taken." This was a conceit, ' 
but it was the conceit of " no vulgar boy." 
There is a great fair at Kirkoswald in the 
beginning of August — on the same day, we 
believe, with a like fair at Kirkoswald iu 
Northumberland, both places having taken 
their rise from the piety of one jierson, 
Oswald, a Saxon king of the heptarchy, 
whose memory is probably honoured in 
these observances. During the week pre- 
ceding this fair in the year 1777, Burns 
made overtures to his Maybole friend, 
Willie, for their getting up a dance, on the 
evening of the approaching festival, in one 
of the public -houses of the village, and in- 
viting their sweethearts to it. Willie knew 
little at that time of dances or sweethearts ; 
but he liked Burns, and was no enemy to 
amusement. He therefore consented, and it 
was agreed that some other yoiuig men 
should be requested to join in the under- 
taking. The dance took place, as designed, 
the requisite music being supplied by a 
hired band ; and anout a dozen couples par- 
took of the fun. \A'hen it was proposed to 
part, the reckoning was called, and found to 
amount to eighteen shillings atul fourpenee. 
It was then discovered that almost every 
one present had lo<>ked to liis neighboui'S toi 



BURNS m LOVE WITH PEGGY THO^rSON. 



27 



the means of settling tliis claim. Burns, 
the orin-inator of the scheme, was in the 
poetical con(htion of not being master of a 
single penny. The rest were in the like 
condition, all except one, whose resources 
araoimted to a groat, and ISIaybole Willie, 
who possessed about half-a-crown. The 
last indi\'idual, who alone boasted any 
worldly wisdom or experience, took it njion 
him to extricate the company from its ditti- 
cidties. By virtue of a candid and sensible 
narration to the landlord, he induced that 
indivichial to take what they had, and give 
credit for the remainder. The payment of 
the debt is not the worst part of the story. 
Seeing no chance from begging or borrow- 
ing, Willie resolved to gain it, if possible, 



bewildering passion of the poet. Peggy 
was the theme of his " Song composed in 
August," beginning, 

" Now westlin winds and slaui^hterinsr guns 
Brings Autumn's pleasant weather." 

Slie afterwards became Mrs. Neilson, and 
lived to a good age in the town of Ajt, 
where her cliildren still reside. 

At his departure from Kirkoswald, he 
enejiged his INJaybole friend and some other 
lads to keep up a correspondence with him. 
His object in doing so, as we may gather 
from his owi\ naiTative, was to improve 
himself in composition. "I carrie<l this 
whim so far." says he, "that, though I had 
not three farthings' worth of business in the 



by 'merchandise. Observuig thit stationery I ^wl'l >-ct almost every post brought me as 
articles for the school were procured at many letters as if I had been a broad plodd 



procured 

Kirkoswald with difficulty, he supplied him- 
self «nth a stock from his father's warehouse 
at Maypole, and for some weeks sold pens 
and paper to his companions, with so much 
advantage, that at length he realised a suffi- 
cient amount of protit to liquidate the ex- 
pense of the dance. Burns and he then 
went in triumph to the inn, and not only 
settled the claim to the last penny, but 
gave the kind-hearted host a bowl of thanli 



ing son of day-book and ledger." To 
^^'illie, in particular, he wrote often, and in 
the most friendly and confidential terms. 
^A'hen that individual was commencing 
business in his native town, the poet ad- 
dressed him a poetical epistle of appropriate 
advice, headed with the well-known Imcs 
from Blair's Grave, beginning — 
" Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul. 
Sweetener of life and solder of society." 



into the bargain. Willie, however, took This correspondence continued till the period 
care from that time forth to engage in no of the publication of the poems, when 
schemes for country dances without looking | Burns wrote to request his friend's good 
carefully to the probable state of the pockets ] offices in increasing his list of subscribers. 
of his fellow adventurers. » The young man was then possessed of little 

Burns, according to his own account, con- influence ; but what little he had, he ex- 
cluded his residence at Kirkoswald in a erted with all the zeal of friendship, and 
blaze of passion for a fair fdelte who lived with considerable success. A considerable 
next door to the school. At this time, ! number of copies was accordingly trans- 
owing to the destruction of the proper I mitted in proper time to his care, and soon 
school of Kirkoswald, a chamber at the end after the poet came to Maybole to receive 
of the old church, the business of parochial j the money. His friend collected a few 
instniction was conducted in an apartment i choice spirits to meet him at the King's 
on the ground floor of a house in the main j Arms Inn, and they spent a happy niglit 
street of the village, opposite the church- | together. Burns was on this occasion par- 
yard. From behnid this house, as from j ticularly elated, for ^Vi^ie, in the midst of 
behind each of its neighbours in the same I their conviviality, handed over to him above 
row, a small stripe of kail-yard (Avf/Uce, I seven pounds, being the first considerable 
Idtchen garden) runs back about fifty yards, I sum of money the poor hard had ever pos- 
along a rapidly ascending slope. Mhen sessed. In the pride of his heart, next 
Burns went into the particular jiatch behind | morning, he determined that he should not 
the school to take the sun's altitude, he had walk home, and accordingly he hired from 
only to look o^•er a low enclosure to see the j his host a certain poor hack mare, wel' 
similar patch connected with the next house, i known along the whole road from Glasgow 
Here, it seems, Peggy Thouison, the i to Portpatrick — in all probability the first 
daughter of the rustic occupant of that j hired conveyance that Poet Burns had ever 
house, was walking at the time, though | enjoyed, for even his subsequent journey to 
more probably engaged in the business of , Edinburgh, aspicious as were the prospects 
cutting a cabbage for the family dinner, i under which it was undertaken, was per- 
than imitating the flower-gathering Proser- , formed on foot, '^^■illie and a few otlur 
pine, or her prototype Eve. Hence the | youths who had been in his company on the 



28 



LIFE OF BURXS. 



preceding night, walked ont of town before 
him, for tlie purpose of tuking leave at a 
particular spot ; and before he came up, 
they had prepared a few mock-heroic verses 
in wliich to express their farewell. 'Wheu 
Burns rode up, accordingly, they saluted 
him in tliis formal manner, a little to his 
surprise. He thanked them, however, and 
instantly added, " AVhat need of all this 
fine parade of verse ? It would have been 
quite enough if you had said — 

Hero comes Burns, 
On Kosinante ; 

She's (I — ■ poor, 
But he's d — canty." 

The company then allowed Burns to go on 
liis way rejoicing. (.39.) 

Uncier the humble roof of his parents, it 
appears that our poet had great advantages; 
but his opportunities of information at 
school were more limited as to time than 
they usually are among his countr3anen in 
his condition of life ; and the acquisitions 
which he made, and the poetical talent 
which he exerted, under the presMire of early 
and incessant toil, and of inferior, and per- 
haps scanty nutriment, testify at once the 
extraordinary force and activity of his mind. 
In his frame of body he rose nearly to live 
feet ten inches, and assumed the proportions 
that indicate agihty as well as strength. In 
the various labours of the farm he excelled 
all his competitors. Gilbert Burns declares 
tliat in mowing, the exercise that tries all 
the muscles most severely, Robert was the 
only man that, at the end of a summer's 
day, he was ever obliged to acknowledge as 
his ijfiaster. But though our poet gave the 
powers of his body to the labours of the 
farm, he refused to bestow on them his 
thoughts or his care. While the plough- 
share under his guidance passed tlurough the 
sward, or the grass fell under the sweep of 
his scythe, he was humming the songs of 
his country, musing on the deeds of ancient 
V dour, or wrapt ui the illusion of fancy, as 
h T enchantments rose on his view. Happily 
t le Sunday is yet a sabbath, on which man 
and beast rest from their labours. On this 
day, therefore. Burns coidd indulge in a free 
intercourse with the charms of nature. It 
was his delight to wander alone on the 
banks of the Ayr, whose stream is now im- 
m.ortal, and to listen to the song of the 
blackbird at the close of the sunnner's day. 
But still greater was his pleasure, as he 
himself uiforms us, in walking on the 
sheltered side of a wood, in a cloudy winter 
day, and hearing the storm rave among the 
trees ; and more elevated stiU his deiight 



to ascend some eminence during the agita- 
tions of nature ; to stride alcmg its summit, 
while the lightning flashed around him ; and, 
amidst the howhngs of the tempest, to apos- 
trojihise the spirit of the storm. Such 
situations he declares most favoural)le to 
devotion : — " Rapt in enthusiasm, I seem 
to ascend towards Him i«Ao walks on the 
wings of the loinds! " If other proofs were 
wanting of the character of his genius, this 
might determine it. The heart of the poet 
is peculiarly awake to every impression of 
beauty and sublimity ; but with the higher 
order of poets, the beautiful is less attractive 
than the sublime. 

The gaiety of many of Burns's writings, 
and the lixely and even cheerful colouring 
with which he has portrayed his own cha- 
racter, may lead some persons to suppose, 
that the melancholy which hung over him 
towards the end of his days was not an ori- 
ginal part of his constitution. It is not to 
be doubted, indeed, that this melancholy 
acquired a darker hue in the progress of his 
life ; but, independent of his own and of his 
brother's testimony, evidence is to be found 
among his papers, that he was subject very 
early to those depressions of mind, which 
are perhaps not wholly separable from the 
sensibility of genius, but which in him arose 
to an uncommon degTce. The following 
letter, addressed to his father, will serve as a 
proof of this observation. It was written at 
'the time when he was learning the business 
of a iiax dresser, and is dated 

" Irvine, December 27, I7S1. 
"Honoured Sir. — I have purposely de- 
layed writing, in tiie hope that I should have 
the pleasure of seeing you on New-year's- 
day ; but work comes so hard upon us, that 
I do not choose to be absent ou that account, 
as well as for some other little reasons, whic h 
I shall tell you at meeting. ]\Iy health is 
nearly the same as when you were here, only 
my sleep is a little sounder ; and, on tlie 
whole, I am rather better than otherwise, 
though I mend by very slow degrees. The 
weakness of my nerves has so debilitated my 
mhid, that I dare neither review past events, 
nor look forward into futurity ; for the least 
anxiety or perturbation in my breast, pro- 
duces most unhappy effects on my whole 
frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour 
or two my spirits arc a little lightened, I 
glimmer a little into futurity ; but my prin- 
cipal, and indeed my only pleasurable em- 
ployment, is looking backwards and forwards 
in a moral and religious way. I am quite 
transported at the thought, that ere long. 



BURNS'S DETIATIXG CLUB. 



29 



Tory soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all 
the pains and uneasinesses, and disquietudes 
of this Mcary life, for I assure you I am 
heartily tired of it ; and, if I do not very 
much deceive myself, I could contentedly and 
gladly resijjn it. 
•The soul, uneasy and confiu'd at home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.' 

" It is for this reason I am more pleased 
with the 15 th, IGth, and 17th verses of the 
7th chapter of Revelations, than with any 
ten times as many verses in the whole Bible, 
and would not exchange the noble enthusiasm 
with which they hispire me, for all that this 
world has to oft'er. (40) As for this world, I 
despair of ever making a tigure in it. I am 
not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor 
the flutter of the gay. I shall never again 
be capable of entering into such scenes. In- 
deed, I am altogether unconcerned at the 
thoughts of this life. I foresee that poverty 
and obscurity proljably await me ; I am in 
some measure prepared, and daily preparing, 
to meet them. 1 have but just time and 
paper to return you my grateful thanks for 
the lessons of virtue and piety yon have given 
nie, which were too much neglected at the 
time of giving them, but which, I hope, have 
been rememljered ere it is yet too late. Pre- 
sent my dutifid respects to my mother, and 
my compliments to Mr. and Jlrs. Muir ; and 
with wishing you a merry New-year's-day, I 
shall conclude. I am, honoured sir, your 
dutiful son, " Robert Burns. 

" P. S. — My meal is r.early out ; but I am 
going to borrow, till 1 get more." 

lliis letter, written several years before 
the publication of his poems, when his name 
was as obscure as his condition was humble, 
displays the philosophic melancholy which so 
generally forms the poetical temperament, 
and that buoyant and ambitious spirit which 
indicates a mind conscious of its strength. 
At Irvine, Burns at this time possessed a 
single room for his lodging, rented perhaps at 
the rate of a shilling a-week. He passed liis 
days in constant labour as a flas-dressw, and 
his food consisted chiefly of oatmeal, sent to 
him from his father's family. The store of 
this humble, though wholesome nutninent, 
it appears was nearly exhausted, and he was 
about to borrow till he shoidd obtain a sup- 
ply. (41) Yet even in this situation, his 
active imagination had formed to itself jiic- 
tures of eminence and distinction. His de- 
spair of making a figure in the world, shows 
how ardently he ^vishcd for hononralile fame ; 
and his contempt of life, founded on this 
aespair, is the genuine expression of a youth- 



ful and generous mind. In such a state of 
reflection, and of suffering, the imagination 
of Burns naturally passed the dark bounda- 
ries of our earthly horizon, and rested ou 
those beautiful representations of a better 
world, where there is neither thirst, nor hun- 
ger, nor sorrow ; and where happiness shall 
be in proportion to the capacity of happiness. 

Such a disposition is far from being at va- 
riance with social enjoyments. Those who 
have studied the afiinities of mind, know that 
a melancholy of this description, after a while, 
seeks reUef in the endearments of society, and 
that it has no distant connection with the 
flow of cheerfulness, or even the extravagance 
of mirth. It was a few days after the writing 
of this letter that our poet, "in giving a wel- 
come carousal to the new year, with his gay 
companions," suffered his flax to catch fire, 
and his shop to be consumed to ashes, (-i'i) 

The energy of Burns's mind was not ex- 
hausted by his daily labours, the effusion of 
his muse, his social pleasures, or his solitary 
meditations. Some time previous to his en- 
gagement as a flax-dresser, having heard that 
a debating club had been established in Ayr, 
he resolved to try how such a meeting would 
succeed in the village of Tarbolton. About 
the end of the year 17S0, our poet, his bro- 
ther, and five other young peasants of the 
neighboiu'hood, formed themselves into a so- 
ciety of this sort, the declared objects of 
which were to relax themselves after toil, to 
promote sociahty and fi'iendship, and to im- 
prove the mind. The laws and regulations 
were furnished by Burns. The members 
were to meet after the labours of the day 
were over, once a week, in a small public- 
house in the village, where each should offer 
his opinion on a given question or subject, 
supporting it by such arguments as he 
thought proper. The debate was to be con- 
ducted with order and decorum ; and after 
It was finished, the members were to choose 
a subject for discussion at the ensuing meet- 
ing. The sum expended by each was not to 
exceed threepence ; and, with the humble 
potation that this could procure, they were 
to toast their mistresses, and to cultivate 
friendship with each other. This society 
continued its meetings regularly for some 
time; and in the autumn of 1782, wishing 
to preserve some account of their proceed- 
ings, they purchased a book, into which their 
laws and regulations were copied, \\ith a 
preamble, containhig a short history of ilieir 
transactions do\m to that period. 'I'his 
curious document, which is evidently the 
work of our poet, has been discovered, audit 
deserves a place in his memoirs. 



80 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



" HISTORY or THE niSE, PROCEETIIN'GS, AND 
REGULATIONS OF THE BACHELOUs' CLUB. 

• Of birth or blood we do not boast, 

Nor gentry does our cUib afford ; 

But ploughman and mechanics we 

In Nature's simple dress record.' 

"As the grea.t end of human society is to 
become wiser and better, this ought there- 
fore to be the principal view of every man in 
every station of hfe. But as experience has 
taught us, that such studies as inform the 
head and mend the lieart, when long con- 
tinued, are apt to exhaust the faculties of the 
mind, it has been found proper to relieve 
and unbend the mind by some employment 
or another, that may be agreeable enough to 
keep its powers in exercise, but at the same 
time not so serious as to exhaust them. But 
superadded to this, by far the greater part of 
mankind are under the necessity of earning 
the sustenance of human life by the lahour of 
their bodies, whereby, not only the faculties 
of mind, but the nerves and sinews of the 
body, are so fatigued, that it is absolutely 
necessary to have recourse to some amuse- 
ment or diversion, to 'relieve the wearied man, 
worn down with the necessary labours of 
life. 

" As the best of things, however, have been 
perverted to the worst of purposes, so, under 
tlie pretence of amusement and diversion, 
men have plunged into all the madness of 
riot and dissipation ; and, instead of attend- 
ing to the grand design of human life, they 
have begun witli extravagance and folly, and 
ended with guilt and wretchedness. Im- 
pressed with these considerations, we, the 
following lads in the parish of Tarbolton, 
vie. Hugh Reid, Robert Burns, Gilbert Burns, 
Alexander Brown, Walter Mitchell, Thomas 
Wright, and William iM'Gavin, resolved, for 
our mutual entertainment, to unite ourselves 
into a club, or society, under such rules and 
regulations, that while we should forget our 
cares and labours in mirth and diversion, we 
might not transgress the bounds of inno- 
cence and decorum ; and after agreeing on 
these, and some other regulations, we held 
our first meeting at Tarbolton, in the house 
of John Richard, upon the evening of the 
11th November, 1780, commonly called 
Hallowe'en, and after choosing Robert Burns 
president forthe night, we proceeded todebate 
on this question : ' Suppose a young man, 
bred a farmer, but without any fortune, has 
it in his power to marry either of two women, 
the one a girl of large fortune, but neither 
handsome in person nor agreeable in conver- 
sation, but who can manage the household 
all'airs of a farm well enough ; the other of 



them a girl every way agreeable in person 
conversation, and behaviour, but witliout any 
fortune : which of them shall he choose ?* 
Finding ourselves very happy in our society, 
we resolved to continue to meet once a 
month in the same house, in the way and 
manner proposed, and shortly thereafter we 
chose Robert Ritchie for another member. 
In May, 1781, we brought in Uavid Sillar, 
(43) and in June, Adam Jamaison, as mem- 
bers. About the beginning of the year 1782, 
we admitted Matthew Patterson and John 
Orr, and in June following we choose James 
Patterson as aproper brother for such a society. 
The club being thus increased, we resolved to 
meet at Tarbolton on the race night, the July 
following, and have a dance in honour of our 
society. Accordingly, we did meet, each one 
with a partner, and spent the evening in such 
innocence and merriment, such cheerfulness 
and good humour, that every brother will 
long remember it with pleasure and delight." 
To this preamble are subjoined the rules and 
regulations. 

The philosophical mind will dwell with 
interest and pleasure on an institution that 
combined so skilfully the means of instruc- 
tion and of happiness ; and if grandeur looks 
down with a smile on these simple annals, 
let us trust that it will be a smile of benevo- 
lence and approbation. It is with regret 
that the sequel of the history of the Bache- 
lors' Club of Tarbolton must be told. It 
survived several years after our poet removed 
from Ayrshire, but no longer sustained by 
his talents, or cemented by his social affec- 
tions, its meetings lost much of their attrac- 
tion ; and at length, in an evil hour, dissen- 
sion arising amongst its members, the insti- 
tution was given up, and the records com- 
mitted to the flames. Happily, the preamble 
an(f the regulations were spared ; and, as 
matter of instruction and of example, they 
are transmitted to posterity. 

After the family of our bard removed from 
Tarbolton to the neighbourhood of JNIauch- 
line, he and his brother were requested to 
assist in forming a similar institution there. 
The regulations of the club at Mauchliiie 
were nearly the same as those of the club at 
Tarbolton ; but one laudable alteration was 
made. The fines for non-attendance had at 
Tarbolton been spent in enlarging their 
scanty potations : at Mauchline it was fixed, 
that the money so arising should be set 
apart for the purchase of books, and the first 
work procured in this manner was the iMir- 
ror, the separate numbers of which were at 
that time recently collected and published in 
volumes. After it, followed a number of 



TEE PECULIAR TASTES OF BURNS. 



31 



; Other works, chiefly of the same nature, 
and amoiiij thr'-=e the I.ounircr. The so- 
' ciety of Mauclihne still [18t)0] suhsists, and 
J appeared in tlie list of subscribers to the 
/ first edition of the works of its celebrated 
J associate. 

The members of these two societies were 
orifrinally all youns: men from the country, 
and chiefly sons of farmers — a description of 
persons, in the opinion of our poet, more 
agreeable in their manners, more virtuous in 
their conduct, and more susceptible of im- 
provement, than the self-sufficient mechanics 
of country towns. With deference to the 
Conversation Society of Mauchline, it may 
be doubted, whether the books which they 
purchased were of a kind best adapted to 
promote the interest and happiness of per- 
sons in this situation of life. The Mirror 
and the Louuirer, though works of great 
merit, mav be said, on a general view of their 
contents, to be less calculated to increase the 
knowledge than to refine the taste of those 
who read them; and to this last object their 
morality itself, which is, however, always per- 
fectly pure, may be considered as subordi- 
nate. As works of taste, they deserve great 
praise. They are, indeed, refined to a high 
degree of delicacy ; and to this circumstance 
it is perhaps owing, that they exhibit little 
or nothing of the peculiar manners of the 
age or country in which they were produced. 
But delicacy of taste, though the source of 
many pleasures, is not without some disad- 
vantages ; and, to render it desirable, the 
possessor shoidd, perhaps, in all cases, be 
raised above the necessity of bodily labour, 
unless, indeed, we should include under this 
term the exercise of the imitative arts, over 
which taste immediately presides. Delicacy 
of taste may be a blessing to him who has 
the disposal of his own time, and who can 
choose what book he shall read, of what di- 
Tersion he shall partake, and what company 
he sliall keep. To men so situated, the cul- 
tivation of taste affords a gratefnl occupation 
in itself, and opens a path to many other 
gratifications. To men of genius, in the 
possession of opulence and leisure, the culti- 
vation of the taste may be said to be essen- 
tial ; since it aff'ords employment to those 
faculties, which without employment woidd 
destroy the happiness of the possessor, and 
corrects that morbid sensibility, or, to use 
the expressions of Mr. Hume, that delicacy 
of passion, which is the bane of the temper- 
ament of genius. Happy had it been for our 
bard, after he emerged from the condition of 
a peasant, had the delicacy of his taste 
equalled the sensibility of his passions, regu- 



lating all the effusions of his muse, and pre- 
siding over all his social enjoyments. But to 
the thousands who share the original condi- 
tion of Burns, and who are doomed to pass 
their lives in the station in which they were 
born, delicacy of taste, were it even of easy 
attainment, would, if not a positive evil, be 
at least a doubtful blessing. Delicacy of 
taste may make many necessary labours irk- 
some or disgusting ; and should it render the 
cultivator of the soil unhappy in his situa- 
tion, it presents no means by which that 
situation may be improved. Taste and lite- 
rature, which diffuse so many charms through- 
out society, which sometimes secure to their 
votaries distinction while living, and which 
still more frequently obtain for them pos- 
thumous fame, seldom procure opulence, or 
even independence, when cultivated with the 
utmost attention, and can scarcely be pur- 
sued with advantage by the peasant in tiiK 
short intervals of leisure which his occupa- 
tions allow. Those who raise themsehes 
from the condition of daily labour, are usually 
men who excel in the practice of some useful 
art, or who join habits of industry and so- 
briety to an acquaintance with some of the 
more common branches of knowledge. The 
penmanship of Butterworth, and the aritn- 
metic of Cocker, may be studied by men in 
the humblest walks of life ; and they will 
assist the peasant more in the pursuit of in- 
dependence than the study of Homer or of 
Shakespeare, though he could comprehend, 
and even imitate, the beauties of those im- 
mortal bards. 

These observations are not offered with- 
out some portion of doubt and hesitation. 
The subject has many relations, and would 
justify an ample discussion. It m.ay be 
observed, on the other hand, that the first 
step to improvement is, to awaken the 
desire of improvement, and that this will be 
most effectually done by such reaihng as 
interests the heart and excites the imagina- 
tion. The greater part of the sacred 
writings themselves, which in Scotland are 
more especially the manual of the poor, 
e irae under this description. It may be fur- 
ther observed, thatevery human being is the 
proper judge of his own happiness,and, within 
the path of innocence, ought to be per- 
mitted to pursue it. Since it is the taste of 
the Scottish peasantry to give a preference 
to works of taste and of fancy (44), it may 
be presumed they find a superior gratifica- 
tion in the perusal of such works ; and it. 
may be added, that it is of more con- 
sequence they should be made happy m 
their original condition, than furnished 



S2 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



vrith the means, or with the desire, of rising 
above it. Such considerations are, doubt- 
less, of much weiglit ; nevertheless, the 
prexious reflections may deserve to be 
examined, and liere we shall leave the subject. 
Though the records of the society at 
Tarboltun are lost, and those of the society 
at ilauchline have not been transmitted, 
yet we may safely affirm, that our poet was 
a distinguished member of both these 
associations, which were well calculated to 
excite and to develope the powers of his 
mind. From seven to twelve persons con- 
stituted the society of Tarbolton, and such 
a number is best suited to the purposes of 
information. Where this is the object 
of these societies, the number should be 
such, that each person may lia\e an oppor- 
tunity of imparting his sentiments, as well 
as of receiving those of others ; and the 
powers of private conversation are to be 
employed, not those of public debate. A 
limited society of this kind, where the 
subject of conversation is fixed beforehand, 
so that each meml)er may revolve it pre- 
viously in his mind, is perhaps one of the 
happiest contrivances hitherto discovered 
for shortening the acquisition of knowledge, 
and hastening the evolution of talents. 
Such an association requires indeed some- 
what more of regulation than the rules of 
politeness, establislied in common conversa- 
tion, or rather, perhaps, it requires that the 
rules of politeness, which in animated conver- 
sation are liable to perpetual violation, should 
be vigorously enforced. The order of speech 
established in the club at Tarbolton, ap- 
pears to have been more regular than was 
re(|uired in so small a society ; where ail 
that is necessary seems to be the fixing on 
a member to whom every speaker shall 
address himself, and who shaU in return 
secure the speaker from interruption. Con- j 
versation, which among men whom intimacy | 
and friendship have relieved from reserve j 
and restraint, is liable, when left to itself, | 
to 30 many inequalities, and which, as it j 
becomes rapid, so often diverges into sepa- 
rate and collateral branches, in which it is ; 
dissipated and lost, being kept within its j 
charuiel by a simple limitation of this kmd, j 
wliich practice renders easy and familiar, | 
flows along in one full stream, and becomes 1 
smoother, and clearer, and deeper, as it ! 
flows. It may also be observed, that in 
this way the acquisition of knowledge 
becomes more pleasant and more easy, from 
the gradual improvement of the facidty 
employed to convey it. Though some i 
attention has been paid to the eloquence of i 



the senate and the bar, whicii in this, as 
in all other free governments, is productive 
of so much influence to the few ^ ho excel iu 
it, yet little regard has been paid to the 
humbler exercise of speech iu private con- 
versation— an art that is of consequence to 
every description of persons under every 
form of goxernment, and on whicli eloquence 
of every kind ought perhaps to be founded. 

The first requisite of every kind of elocu- 
tion, a distinct utterance, is the offspring of 
much time and of long practice. Children 
are always defective in clear articulation, 
and so are young peojile, though in a less 
degree. What is called slurruig iu speech, 
prevads with some persons through lite, 
especially in those who are taciturn. Ar- 
ticulation does not seem to reach its utmost 
degree of distinctness in men before the 
age of twenty, or upwards ; in women it 
reaches this point somewhat earlier. Fe- 
male occupations require much use of 
speech, because they are duties in detail. 
Besides, their occupations being generally 
sedentary, the respiration is left at liberty. 
Their nerves being more delicate, their 
sensibility as well as fancy is more lively ; the 
natural consequence of which is, a mure 
frequent utterance of thought, a greater 
fluency of speech, and a distinct articulation 
at an earher age. But in men who have 
not mingled early and familiarly with tiie 
world, though rich perhaps in knowledge, 
and clear in apprehension, it is often 
painful to observe the difficulty v^dth which 
their ideas are commiuiicatcd by speech, 
through the want of those habits that con- 
nect thoughts, words, and sounds together : 
which, when established, seem as if tliey had 
arisen spontaneously, but which, in truth, 
are the result of long and painful practice ; 
and when analysed, exhibit the phenomena 
of most curious and complicated association. 

Societies then, such as we have been 
describing, while they may be said to put 
each member iu possession of the know- 
ledge of all the rest, improve the powers of 
utterance ; and by the collision of opinion, 
excite the faculties of reason and reflection. 
To those who wish to improve their uiiiuls 
in such intervals of labour as the condition 
of a peasant allows, this method of abbre- 
viating instruction, may, vuider projicr 
regulations, be highly useful. To the 
student, whose opinions, springing out of 
solitary observation and meditation, are 
seldom in the first instance correct, and 
which have, notwithstanding, while confined 
to himself, an increasing tendency to assume 
in his own eye the character of deuionstrn- 



JEAN AEMOUR. 



33 



tintis, an association of this kind, where 
they may be examined as they arise, is of 
the utmost importance ; sin(;e it may pre- 
vent those illusions of imagination, by which 
genius being bewildered, science is often 
debased, and error propag-ated through 
successive generations. And to men who 
having cultivated letters, or genersd science, 
in the course of their education, are en- 
gaged in the active occupations of life, and 
no longer able to devote to study or to 
books tbe time requisite for improving or 
preserving their acquisitions, associations of 
this kind, where the mind may unbend 
from its usual cares in discussions of 
literature or science, afford the most pleas- 
ing, the most useful, and the most rational 
of gratifications. 

Whether in the humble societies of which 
he was a member, Burns acquired much 
direct information, may perhaps be ques- 
tioned. It cannot, however, be doubted, 
that by collision the faculties of his mind 
would be excited ; that by practice his 
habits of enunciation would be established ; 
and thus we have some explanation of that 
early command of words and of expression 
which enabled him to pour forth his 
thoughts in language not unworthy of his 
genius, and which, of all his endowments, 
seemed, on his appearance in Edinburgh, 
the most extraordinary. For associations 
of a literary nature, our poet acquired a 
considerable relish ; and happy had it been 
for him, after he emerged from the con- 
dition of a peasant, if fortune had permitted 
him to enjoy them in the degree of which 
he was callable, so as to have fortified his 
principles of virtue by the purification of his 
taste; and given to the energies of his 
mind, habits of exertion that might have 
excluded other associations, in which it 
must be acknowledged they were too often 
wasted, as well as debased. 

[The allusions in Burns's letter, and that 
of his brother, to his connection with Jean 
Armour, afford but a vague account of 
that affair ; and it seems necessary that 
some farther and clearer particidars should 
now be given. 

John Blane reports the follo\\'ing in- 
teresting circumstances respecting the 
attachmvit of the poet to Miss Annour : — 
There was a singing school at Mauchline, 
which Blane attended. Jean Armour was 
ulso a pupil, and he soon became aware of 
her talents as a vocalist. He even con- 
tracted a kind of attachment to this young 
woman, though only such as a country lad 
of his degTce might entertain for the 



daughter of a substantial country masou. 
One night, there was a rocicing at Mossgiel, 
where a lad named Ralph Sillar sang a 
number of songs in what was considered a 
superior style. AVhen Burns and Blane 
were retired to their usual sleeping place in 
the stable-loft, the former asked the latter 
what he thought of Sillar's singing, to which 
Blane answered that the lad tliought so 
much of it himself, and had so many airs 
about it, that there was no occasion for 
others expressing a favourable opinion — yet, 
he added, "I would not give Jean Armour 
for a score of him." " You are always 
talking of this Jean Armour," said Bums ; 
" I wish you could contrive to bring me to 
see her." Blane readily consented to do so, 
and next evening, after the plough was 
loosed, the two proceeded to Mauchline for 
that purpose. 13urns went into a public- 
house, and Blane went into the singing- 
school, which chanced to be kept in the 
floor above. When the school was dis- 
missing, Blane asked Jean Armour if she 
would come to see Robert Burns, who was 
below, and anxious to speak to her. Having 
heard of his poetical talents, she said she 
would like much to see him, but was afi'aid 
to go without a female companion. This 
difficulty being overcome by the frankness 
of a Miss jMorton — the Miss Morton of the 
Six Mauchline Belles — Jean went down to 
the room where Burns was sitting. " From 
that time," Blane adds very naively, " I had 
little of the company of Jean Armour." 

Here for the present ends the story of 
Blane. The results of Burns's acquaint- 
ance ■n-ith Jean have been already in part 
detailed. AVhen her pregnancy could be no 
longer concealed, the poet, under the in- 
fluence of honourable feeling, gave her a 
written pajier, in which he acknowledged 
his being her husband — a document surti- 
cient to constitute a marriage in Scotland, 
if not in the eye of decency, at least- in that 
of law. But her father, from a dislike to 
Burns, whose theological satires had greatly 
shocked him, and from hopelesness of his 
being able to support her as a husband, 
insisted that she shoidd destroy this paper, 
and remain as an unmarried woman. 

Some violent scenes ensued. The parents 
were enraged at the imprudence of their 
daughter, and at Burns. The daughter, 
trembling beneath their indignation, could 
ill resist the command to forget and 
abandon her lover. He, in his turn, was 
filled with the extremest anguish when 
informed that she had given him up. Ano- 
ther event occurred to add to tbe torments 



84 



LIFE OF BUENS. 



of the unhappy poet. Jean, to avoid the 
immediate pressure of her father's dis- 
pleasure, went about the month of ]\Iay 
(1786) to Paisley, and took refuge with a 
relation of her mother, one Andrew Purdie, 
a Wright. There was at Paisley a certain 
Robert Wilson, a good-looking young 
weaver, a native of Mauchline, and who was 
realising wages to the amount of perhaps 
• three pounds a-week by his then flourishing 
profession. Jean Armour had danced with 
this "gallant weaver" at the Mauchline 
dancing-school balls, and, besides her 
relative Purdie, she knew no other person 
in Paisley. Being in much need of a 
small supply of money, she found it neces- 
sary to apply to Mr. Wilson, who received 
her kindly, although he did not conceal that 
he had a suspicion of the reason of her visit 
to Paisley. When the reader is reminded 
that village life is not the sphere in which 
high-wrought and romantic feelings are 
most apt to flourish, he will be prepared 
in some measure to learn that Robert 
Wilson not only relieved the necessities 
of the fair applicant, but formed the wish to 
possess himself of her liand. He called for 
her several times at Purdie's, and informed 
her, that, if she shoidd not become the wife 
of Burns, he would engage himself to none 
while she remained unmarried. Mrs. 
Burns long after assured a female friend 
that she never gave the least encourage- 
ment to Wilson; but, nevertheless, his 
visits occasioned some gossip, which soon 
found its way to Mauchline, and entered the 
soul of the poet like a demoniac possession. 
He now seems to have regarded her as lost 
to him for ever, and that not purely through 
the objections of her relations, but by her 
own cruel and perjured desertion of one 
whom she had acknowledged as her hus- 
band. It requires these particulars, Httle 
as there may be of pleasing about them, to 
make us fuUy understand much of what 
Burns wrote at this time, both in verse and 
prose. Long afterwards, he became con- 
vinced that Jean, by no part of her conduct 
with respect to Wilson, had given him just 
cause for jealousy: it is not improbable 
that he learned in time to make it the sub- 
ject of sport, and wrote the song, " ^Vhere 
Cart rins rowing to the sea," in jocular 
allusion to it. But for months — and it is 
distressing to think that these were the 
months during which he was putting his 
matchless poems for the first time to press 
— he conceived himself the victim of a 
faithless woman, and life was to him, as he 
himself describes it. 



' a weary dream. 



The dream of ane that never wanks." 
In a letter dated June 12, 1786, he says 
" Poor ill-advised ungrateful Armour came 
home on Friday last. You have heard all 
the particulars of that affair, and a black 
affair it is. What she thinks of her conduct 
now, I don't know ; one thing I do know, 
she has made me completely miserable. 
Never man loved, or rather adored, a wo- 
man more than I did her; and, to confess a 
truth between you and me, I do love her 
stiU to distraction, after all, though I 
won't tell her so if I were to see her, 
which I don't want to do. * * May 
Almighty God forgive her ingratitude and 
perjury to me, as I from my very soul 
forgive her." On the 9th July he writes— 
" I have waited on Armour since her return 
home, not from the least view of reconcilia- 
tion, but merely to ask for her health, and — to 
you I will confess it — from a foolish hanker- 
ing fondness — very ill-placed indeed. The 
mother forbade me the house, nor did Jean 
show the penitence that might have been 
expected. However, the priest, I am in- 
formed, will give me a certificate as a single 
man, if I comply with the rules of tlie 
church, which, for that very reason, 1 intend 
to do. I am going to put on sackcloth and 
ashes this day. I am indulged so far as to 
appear in my own seat. Peccavi, pater, 
miserere mei." 

In a letter of July 17, to Mr. David 
Brice of Glasgow, the poet thus continues 
his story: — I have already appeared pub- 
licly in church, and was indulged m the 
liberty of standing in my own seat. Jean 
and her friends insisted much that she 
should stand along with me in the kirk, but 
the minister would r.ot allow it, which bred 
a great trouble, I assure you, and I am 
blamed as the cause of it, though I jim sure 
I am innocent ; but I am very much pleased, 
for all that, not to have had her company," 
And again, July 30 — •" Armour has got a 
warrant to throw nie in jail till I find secu- 
rity for an enormous sum. This they keep 
an entire secret, but I got it by a channel 
they little dream of ; and I am wandering 
from one friend's house to another, and, 
like a true son of the gospel, ' have no 
where to lay my head.' I know you wUl 
pour an execration on her head, but spare 
the poor iU-advised girl, for my sake; 
though may all the furies that rend the 
injured, enraged lover's bosom, await her 
mother until her latest hour ! I write in a 
moment of rage, reflecting on my miscrablu 
situations-exiled, abandoned, forlorn," 



JEAN ARMOUR'S TWIN CHILDREN. 



B9 



In this dark perijrl, or immediately before 
it (July 22), the poet siirned an instrument, 
in anticipation of his immediately leavinj; 
the kingdom, by which he devised all 
property of whatever kind he might leave 
behind, including the copyright of his 
poems, to his brother Gilbert, in considera- 
tion of the latter having undertaken to 
•upport his daughter EUzabeth, the issue of 
"Elizabeth Paton in Largiesidc." Intima- 
tion of this instrument was publicly made 
at the Cross of Ayr, two days after, by 
William Chalmers, writer. If he had been 
upon better terms with the Armours, it 
seems unlikely that he would have thus 
devised his property without a respect for 
the claims of his offspring by Jean. 

After this we hear no more of the legal 
severities of !Mr. Armour — the object of 
which was, not to abridge the liberty of the 
unfortunate Burns, but to drive him away 
fi"om the country, so as to leave Jean more 
effectually disengaged. The Poems now 
appeared, and. probably had some effect in 
allaying the hostility of the old man to- 
wards their author. It would at least 
appear that, at the time of Jean's accouche- 
ment, September 3, the " skulking " had 
ceased, and the parents of the young woman 
were not so cruel as to forbid his seeing her. 
We now resume the story of John Blane. 

At this time, Blane had removed from 
Mossgiel to IMauchline, and become servant 
to Mr. Gavin Hamilton ; but Burns still 
remembered their old acquaintance. When, 
in consequence of information sent by the 
Armours as to Jean's situation, the poet 
came from Mossgiel to \isit her, he called 
in passing at Mr. Hamilton's, and asked 
John to accompany him to the house. 
Blane went with him to Mr. Armour's, 
wlicre, according to his recollection, the 
bard was received with all desirable civility. 
Jean held up a pretty female infant to 
Burns, who took it affectionately in his 
arms, and, after keeping it a little while, 
returned it to the mother, asking the bless- 
ing of God Almighty upon her and her 
infant. He was turning away to converse 
with the other people in the room, when 
Jean said, archly, "But this is not all— here 
is another baby," and handed hiiu a male 
child, which had been born at the same 
time. He was greatly surprised, but to<ik 
that child too for a little into his arms, and 
repeated his blessing upon it. (Tliis child 
was afterwards named Robert, and still 
lives : the girl was named Jean, but only 
bved fourteen mouths.) The mood of the 
melancholy poet theu changed to the mirth- 



ftil, and the scene was conchidcd by his 
giving the ailing lady a hearty caress, and 
I'allying her on this promising beginning of 
her history as a mother. 

It would appear, from the words used by 
the poet on this occasion, that he was not 
without hope of yet making good his matri- 
monial alliance with Jean. This is rendered 
the more likely by the evidence which exists 
of his having, for some time during Sep- 
tember, entertained a hope of obtaining an 
excise appointment, through his friends 
Hamilton and Aiken ; in which case he 
woidd have been able to present a respect- 
able claim upon the countenance of the 
Armours. But this prospect ended in dis- 
appointment ; and there is reason to con- 
clude, that, in a very short time after the 
accouchement, he was once more forbidden 
to visit the house in which his children and 
all hut wife resided. There was at this time 
a person named John Kennedy, who tra- 
velled the district on horseback as mercan- 
tile agent, and was on intimate terms with 
Burns. One day, as he was passing Moss- 
giel, Burns stopped him, and made the 
request that he would return to Mauchline 
with a present for " his poor wife." Kennedy 
consented, and the poet hoisted upon the 
pommel of the saddle a bag fiUed with the 
delicacies of the farm. He proceeded to 
ilr. Armour's house, and requested per- 
mission to see Jean, as the bearer of a 
message and a present from Robert Burns. 
]\Irs. Armour violently protested against his 
being admitted to an interview, and be- 
stowed upon him sundry unceremonious 
appellations for being the friend of such a 
man ; she was, howe\er, overruled in this 
instance by her husband, and Kennedy was 
permitted to enter the apartment where 
Jean was lying. He had not been there 
many minutes, when he heard a rushing 
and screaming in the stair, and, immediately 
after. Burns burst into the room, followed 
closely by the Armours, who seemed to have 
exhausted their strength in endeavouring to 
repel his intrusion. Burns flew to the bed, 
and putting his cheek to Jean's, and then in 
succession to those of the slumbering 
infants, wept bitterly. The Armours, it is 
added by Kennedy, who has himself re- 
ported the circumstances (45), remamed un- 
affected by his distress ; but whether he 
was allowed to remain for a short time, or 
immediately after expelled, is not mentioned. 
After hearing tliis affecting anecdote of 
Burns, the Lament may verily appear to ua 
as arising from 

" No idly feigned poetic pains." (40) 



36 



LIFE OF BUENS. 



The whole course of the Ayr is fine ; but 
the banks of that river, as it bends to the 
eastward above Maiichline, are singularly 
beautiful, and they were fi'equented, as may 
be imagined, by our poet in his solitary 
walks. Here the muse often visited him. 
In one of these wanderings, he met among 
the woods, a celebrated beauty of the west 
of Scotland — a lady, of whom it is said that 
the charms of her person correspond with 
tlie character of her mind. (47) This inci- 
dent gave rise, as might be expected, to a 
poem, of which an account will be found in 
the following letter, in which he enclosed it 
to the object of his inspiration : — 



•To Miss 



"Mossffiel, ISth November, 1786. 

* Madam. — Poets are such outre beings, 
80 much the the children of wayward fancy 
and capricious whim, that I believe the 
world generally aUows them a larger latitude 
in the laws of propriety, than the sober sous 
of judgment and prudence. I mention this 
as an apology for the liberties that a name- 
less stranger has taken with you in the 
enclosed poem, which he begs leave to pre- 
sent you with. Whether it has poetical 
merit any way worthy of the theme, I am 
not the proper judge, but it is the best 
my abilities can produce : and what to a 
good heart will perhaps be a superior grace, 
it is equally sincere as fervent. 

" The scenery was nearly taken from real 
life, though I dare say, madam, you do not 
recollect it, as I beheve you scarcely noticed 
the poetic reveur as he wandered by you. 
I had roved out as chance directed, in the 
favourite haunts of my muse, on the banks 
of the Ayr, to view nature in all the gaiety 
of the vernal year. The evening sim was 
flaming over the distant western hills ; not 
a breath stirred the crimson opening 
blossom, or the verdant spreading leaf. It 
was a golden moment for a poetic heart. 
I listened to the feathered warblers, pouring 
their harmony on every hand, with a con- 
genial kindred regard, and frequently 
turned out of ray path, lest I should disturb 
their little songs, or frighten thenl to 
another station. Surely, said I to myself, 
he must be a wretch indeed, who, regard- 
less of your harmonious endeavours to 
please him, can eye your elusive flights to 
discover your secret recesses, and to rob you 
of all the property nature gives you, your 
dearest comforts, your helpless nesthngs. 
Even the hoary hawthorn tuig that shot 
across the way, what heart at such a time 
but must have been interested in its wel- 



fare, and wished it preserved firom the 
rudely-browsing cattle, or the withering east- 
ern blast? Such was the scene, and such the 
hour, when, in a corner of ray prospect, I 
spied one of the fairest pieces of natiire's 
workmanship that ever crowned a poetic 
landscape, or met a poet's eye ; those vision- 
ary bards excepted who hold commerce with 
aerial beings ! Had calumny and villany 
taken my walk, they had at that moment 
sworn eternal peace with such an object. 

" What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! 
It would have raised plain, dull, historic 
prose into metaphor and measure. 

"The enclosed song was the work of my 
return home ; and perhaps it but poorly 
answers what might have been expected 
fi'om such a scene. (48) * * * 

"I have the honour to be, madam, your 
most obedient, and very humble servant, 
"Robert Burns." 
'Twas even— the dewy fields were green, 

On every blade the pearls hang : (49) 
The Zephyr wanton'd round the bean, 
And bore its fragrant sweets alang ; 
In every glen the mavis sang, 

All nature listening seemed the while. 
Except where greenwood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 
With careless step I onward strayed, 

My heart rejoiced in nature's joy, 
When, musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanced to spy ; 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 
Her hair like nature's vernal sniile. 
Perfection whispered passing by, 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! (50) 
Fair is the morn in flowery May, 

And sweet is night in Autumn mild ; 
When roving through the garden gay. 

Or wandering In the lonely wild : 
But woman, Nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does compile; 
Even there her other works are foil'd 

By the bony lass o' Ballochmyle. 
Oh had she been a country maid, 

And I the happy country swain ! 
Though sheltered in the lowest shed 
That ever rose on Scotland's plain, 
Through weary winter's wind and rain. 
With joy, with rapture I would toil ; 
And nightly to my bosom strain 
The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 
Then pride might climb the slippery steepi, 

Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 

Or downward seek the Indian mine ; 
Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the flocks, or till the soil. 
And every day have joys divine 
With the bony lass o' Ballochmyle." 

In the manuscript book in which our poet 
has recounted this uicideut, and into which 
the letter and poem are copied, he complains 
that the lady made no reply to liis effusions. 



SUSCEPTIBILITY OF BURNS. 



87 



and this appears to have wounded his self- 
love. It is not, however, difficult to find an 
excuse for her silence. Burns was at this 
time little known ; and, wliere known at all, 
noted rather for the wild strength of his 
humour, than for those strains of tenderness 
in which he afterwards so much excelled. To 
the lady herself his nwne had, perhaps, never 
been mentioned, and of such a poem she 
might not consider herself as the proper 
jiulg-e. Her modesty might prevent her 
from perceiving that the muse of TibuUus 
breathed in this nameless poet, and that her 
beauty was awakening strains destmed to im- ! 
mortality on the banks of the Ayr. It may 
be conceived, also, that supposing the verse 
duly appreciated, delicacy might find it diffi- 
cult to express its acknowledgments. The 
fervent imagination of the rustic bard pos- 
sessed more of tenderness than of respect. 
Instead of raising himself to the condition of 
the object of his admiration, he presumed to 
reduce her to his ovra, and to strain this 
high-born beauty to his daring bosom. It is ' 
true. Burns might have found precedents for 
such freetloms among the poets of Greece 
and Rome, and, indeed, of every country. 
And it is not to be denied, that lovely wo- i 
men have generally submitted to this sort of ] 
profanation with patience, and even with 
good humour. To what purpose is it to re- 
pine at a misfortune which is the necessary 
conseqiience of their own charms, or to re- 
monstrate with a description of men who are 
incapable of control ? 

" The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, 
Are of imagination all compact." 

It ".nay be easily presumed, that the beau- 
tiful nymph of Ballochmyle, whoever she 
may have been, did not reject with scorn the 
adorations of our poet, though she received 
them with silent modesty and dignified 
reserve. 

The sensibility of our bard's temper, and 
the force of his imagination, exposed him, in 
a particular manner, to the impressions of 
beauty ; and these qualities, united to his 
impassioned eloquence, gave him in turn a 
powerful influence over the female heart. 
The banks of the Ayr formed the scene of 
youthful passions of a still tenderer nature, 
the history of which it would be improper to 
reveal, were it even in our power ; and the 
traces of which will soon be discoverable only 
in those strains of nature and sensibility to 
which they gave birth. Tlie song entitled 
Highland Mary is known to relate to one of 
these attachments. " It was written," says 
our bard, " on one of the most interesting 
passages of my youthful days." The object 



of this passion died early in life, and the im- 
pression left on the mind of Burns seems to 
have been deep and lasting. (51) Several 
years afterwards, when he was removed to 
Nithsdale, he gave vent to the sensibility of 
his recollections in the following impassioned 
lines. In the manuscript book from which 
we extract them, they are addressed To Mary 
in Heaven ! 

" Thou linp:orinp: star, with less'ning ray, 

Tliat lov'st to greet the curly moru, 
Ageiin thou usher'st in the clay 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
Oh, Mary ! dear deiiarted shartc ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breasbl 

That sacred hour can I forget, 

Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
AVhcre by the winding Ayr we met 

To live one day of parting love ! 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past; 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last I 
Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ninj, 
green ; 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 

Twin'd amorous I'ound the raptured scene. 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on every spray, 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

I'roclaim'd the speed of winged day. 
Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care ; 
Time but tlie impression stronger makes. 

As streams their channels di'eper wear. 
My Mary, dear departed shade ' 

Whore is thy place of blissful rest t 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? [breast ?" 

Hear'bt thou the groans that rend his 

To the delineations of the poet by himself, 
by his brother, and by his tutor, these addi- 
tions are necessary, in order that the reader 
may see his character in its various aspects, 
and may have an opportunity of forming a 
just notion of the variety, as well as of the 
power of his original genius. (52) 

We have dwelt the longer on the early 
part of his life, because it is the least known, 
and because, as has already been mentioned, 
this part of his history is connected with 
some views of the condition and manners of 
the humblest ranks of society, liitherto little 
observed, and which will perhaps be found 
neither useless nor uninteresting. 

About the time of his leaving his native 
county, his correspondence commences ; and 
in the scries of letters given to the world, 
the chief incidents of the remaining part of 
his life will be found. This authentic, 
though melancholy record, will supersede ia 



38 



LIFE OF EUKiXS. 



I'lLure the necessity of any extended narra- 
tive. 

Burns set ont for Edinburgh in the month 
of November, 1 786. He was furnished with 
a letter of introduction to Dr. Blacklock 
(5.3), from the gentleman to whom the doctor 
had addressed the letter which is represented 
by our bard as the immediate cause of his 
visiting the Scottish metropolis. He was 
acquainted with iMr. Stewart, Professor of 
Jloral Philosophy in the university, and 
had been entertained by that gentleman at 
Catrine, his estate in Ayrshire. He had 
been introduced by Mr. Alexander Dalzeil 
(54) to the Earl of Glencairn, who had ex- 
pressed his high approbation of his poetical 
talents. He had friends, therefore, who 
could introduce him into the circles of lite- 
rature as well as of fashion, and his own 
manners and appearance exceeding every 
expectation that could have been formed of 
them, he soon became an object of general 
curiosity and admiration. (55) The following 
circumstance contributed to this in a con- 
siderable degree : — At the time when Burns 
arrived in Edinburgh, the periodical paper, 
entitled The Lounger, was publishing, evei-y 
Saturday producing a successive nunilter. 
His poems had attracted the notice of the 
gentlemen engaged in that undertaking, and 
the ninety-seventh number of those unequal, 
though frequently beautiful essays, is devoted 
to An Account of Robert Burns, the Ayrshire 
Ploughman, with extracts from his Poems, 
written by the elegant pen of ]Mr. Mackenzie. 
The Lounger had an extensive circulation 
among persons of taste and literature, not 
in Scotland only, but in various parts of 
England, to whose acquaintance, therefore, 
our bard was immediately introduced. The 
paper of Jlr. Mackenzie was calculated to 
introduce him advantageously. The extracts 
are well selected ; the criticisms and reflec- 
tions are judicious as well as generous ; and 
in the style and sentiments there is that 
happy delicacy, by which the writings of the 
author are so eminently distinguished. The 
extracts from Burns's poems in the ninety- 
seventh number of The Lounger, were copied 
into the London as well as into many of the 
provincial papers, and the fame of our bard 
spread throughout the island. Of the 
manners, character, and conduct of Burns at 
tills period, the following account lias been 
given by Mr. Stewart, Professor of Moral 
Pliilosophy in the University of Edinburgh, 
in a letter to the editor, which he is particu- 
larly happy to have obtained permission to 
insert in these memoirs : — 

" The first time I saw Robert Burns -vas 



on the 2.3rd of October, 1736, when he dined 
at my house in Ayrshire, together with our 
common friend Mr. John ^lackenzie, surgeon 
in Manchline. to whom I am indebted for the 
pleasure of his acquaintance. I am enabled 
to mention the date particularly, by some 
verses which Burns wrote after he returned 
home, and in which the day of our meeting 
is recorded. My excellent and much lamented 
friend, the late Basil, Lord Daer, happened 
to arrive at Catrine the same day, and by 
the kindness and frankness of his manners, 
left an impression on the mind of the poet 
which was never effaced. (56) The verses I 
allude to are among the most imperfect of 
his pieces ; but a few stanzas may perhaps 
be an object of curiosity to you, both oa 
account of the character to which they relate, 
and of the light which they throw on the 
situation and feelings of the writer, before 
his name was known to the public. 

I cannot positively say, at this distance of 
time, whether, at the period of our first 
acquaintance, the Kilmarnock edition of his 
poems had been just published, or was yet 
in the press. I suspect that the latter was 
the case, as I have still in my possession 
copies in his own handwriting of some (jf his 
favourite performances ; particularly of his 
verses On Turning up a Mouse with his 
Plough ; on the Mountain Daisy ; and Tlie 
Lament. On my return to Edinburgh, I 
showed the volume, and mentioned what I 
knew of the author's history to several of 
my friends ; and among others to iNIr. Henry 
Mackenzie, who first recommended him to 
public notice in the 97th number of The 
Lounger. 

" At this time Burns's prospects in life 
were so extremely gloomy, that he had 
seriously formed a plan of going out to 
Jamaica in a very humble situation, not 
however without lamenting that his want of 
patronage should force him to think of a 
project so repugnant to his feelings, when 
his ambition aimed at no liigher an object 
than the station of an exciseman or ganger 
in his own country. 

"His manners were then, as they continued 
ever afterwards, simple, manly, and inde- 
pendent; strongly expressive of conscious 
genius and worth, but without any thing that 
indicated forwardness, arrogance, or vanity. 
He took his share in conversation, but not 
more than belonged to him ; and listened 
with apparent attention and deference on 
subjects where his want of education de- 
prived him of the means of information. If 
there had been a little more of gentlenesa 
I and accommodation in his temper, he would. 



BURNS VISITS EDINBUllGII. 



39 



I think, have been still more interesting ; 
but he had been accustomed to give law in 
the circle of his ordinary acquaintance ; and 
his dread of any thin? approaching to mean- 
ness or servility, rendered his manner some- 
what decided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, 
was more reniarkable among his various at- 
tainments, than the fluency, and precision, 
ftnd originality of his language, when he 
spoke in company ; more particularly as he 
aimed at purity in his turn of expression, 
and avoided more successfully than most 
Scotchmen the peculiaricies of Scottish 
phraseology. 

" He came to Edinburgh early in the ^tnnter 
following, and remained there for several 
months. By whose advice he took this 
step, I am unable to say. Perhaps it was 
suggested only by his own curiosity to see a 
little more of the world ; but, I confess, I 
dreaded the consequences from the first, 
and always wished that his pursuits and 
habits should continue the same as in the 
f.>rmer part of life — with the addition of, 
what I considered as then completely within 
his reach, a good farm on moderate terms, in 
a part of the country agreeable to his taste. 

" The attentions he received during his stay 
in town from all ranks and descriptions of 
persons, were such as would have turned 
any head but his own. I cannot say that I 
could perceive any unfavourable effect 
which they left on his mind. He retained 
the same simplicity of manners and ap- 
pearance which had struck me so forcibly 
when I first saw liim in the country ; nor 
did he seem to feel any additional self-im- 
portance from the ninnbcr and rank of his 
new acquaintance. His dress was perfectly 
suited to his station, plain and unpretend- 
iiiir, with a snrticient attention to neatness. 
If 1 recollect riirht, he always wore boots ; 
and, when on more than usual ceremony, 
buck?kin breeches. 

■' Tlie variety of his engagements, while in 
Edinburgh, prevented me from seeing him 
io often as I could have wished. In the 
course of the spring, he called on me once 
or twice, at my request, early in the morn- 
ing, and walked with me to Braid Hills, in 
the neighbourhood of the town, when he 
charmed me still more by his private con- 
versation than he had ever done in company. 
He was passionately fond of the bcanties of 
nature ; and I recollect once he told me, 
when I was admiring a distant prospect in 
one of our morning walks, that the sight of 
so many smoking cottages gave a pleasure 
to his mind, which none could understand 
who had not witnessed, hke himself, the 

5 



happiness and the worth which they con- 
tained. 

" In his political principles he was then a 
Jacobite ; which was perhaps owins: partly 
to tliis, that his father was originally fronj 
the estate of Lord Mareschal. Iniieed, he 
did not appear to have thought much on 
such subjects, nor very consistently. He 
had a very strong sense of religion, and ex- 
pressed deep regret at the levity with which 
he had heard it treated occasionally in some 
convivial meetings which he frequented. I 
speak of him as he Mas in the winter of 
1 78(i-7 ; for afterwards we met but seldom, 
and our conversations turned chielly ou his 
literary projects, or his private affairs. 

" I do not recollect whether it ajipears or 
not from any of your letters to me, that 
you had ever seen Burns. (57) If you have, 
it is superfluous for me to add, that the 
idea which his conversation conveyed of the 
powers of his mind, exceeded, if possible, 
that which is suggested by his writings. 
Among the poets whom I have happened to 
know, I have been struck, in more than one 
instance, with the unaccountable disparity 
between their general talents, and the occa- 
si(mal inspirations of their more favoured 
moments. But all the faculties of Burns's 
mind, were, as far as I could judge, equally 
vigorous ; and his predilection for poetry 
was rather the residt of his own enthusiastic 
and impassioned temper, than of a genius 
exclusively adapted to that s])ecies of com- 
position. From his conversation I shoidd 
liave pronounced him to be fitted to excel in 
whatever walk of ambition he had chosen to 
exert his abilities. 

"Among the subjects on which he was 
accustomed to dwell, the characters of tlie 
individuals with whom he happened to meet, 
was plainly a favourite one. The remarks 
he made on them were always shrewd and 
pointed, though frequently inclining too 
much to sarcasm. His praise of those he 
loved was sometimes indiscriminate and 
extravagant ; but this, I suspect, proceeded 
rather rather from the caprice and humour 
of the moment, than from the effects of 
attachment in bUnding his judgment. His 
wit was ready, and always impressed with 
the marks of a vigorous understanding ; but, 
to my taste, not often pleasing or happy, 
His attempts at epigram, in his printed 
works, are the only performances, perhaps, 
that he has produced totally unworthy of 
his genius. 

"In summer 1737, 1 passed some weeks 
in Ayrshire, and saw Burns occasionally. 
I think that he made a pretty long eicwe- 



40 



LIFE OF BURXS. 



sion that season to the Highlands, and that 
he also visited what Beattie calls the Arca- 
dian ground of Scotland, upon the banks of 
the Teviot and the Tweed. 

" I should have mentioned before, tliat, not- 
withstanding various reports I heard daring 
the preceding mnter, of Burns's predilection 
for convivial, and not very select society, I 
should have concluded in favour of his 
habits of sobriety, from all of him that ever 
fell under my own observation. He told me 
indeed himself, that the weakness of his 
stomach was such as to deprive him entirely 
of any merit in his temperance. I was, 
however, somewhat alarmed aljout the etfect 
of his now comparatively sedentary and 
luxurious life, when he confessed to me, the 
first niglit he spent in my house after his 
winter's campaign in town, tliat he had 
been mucii disturbed when in bed, by a 
palpitation at his heart, which, he said, was 
a complaint to which he had of late become 
subject. 

" In the course of the same season, I was 
led by curiosity to attend for an hour or two 
u Slaion Lodge in JMauchline, where Burns 
presided. He had occasion to make some 
short unpremeditated compliments to differ- 
ent individuals from whom he had no reason 
to expect a visit, and everything he saiil 
was happdy conceived, and forcibly as well 
as liiieiitly expressed. If I am not mistaken, 
he toll me, that in that village, before going 
to Edinburgh, he had belonged to a small 
club of such of the inhabitants as had a 
taste for books, when they used to converse 
and debate on any interesting questions that 
occurred to them in the course of their 
reading. His manner of speaking in puljlic 
had evidently the marks of some practice in 
e.xLe.iipore elocution. 

" 1 must not omit to mention, what I have 
always considered as characteristical in a 
high degree of true genius, the extreme 
facility and good-nature of his taste, in 
judging of the compositions of others 
where there was any real ground for praise 
1 repeated to him many passages of Englisii 
poetry with which he was imacquaiiited, ami 
have more than once witnessed the tears of 
admiration and rapture with which he heard 
them. The collection of songs by Dr. 
Aikin, which I first put into his hands, he 
read «ith unmixed delight, notwithstanding 
his former efforts in that very dirticulc 
species of wriciug ; and I have little doubt 
that it had some effect in polishing his sub- 
sequent compositions. 

•' In judging of prose, I do not think his 
taste wai equally sound. I oace read to 



hiro a passage or two in Franklin's works, 
which I thought very happily executed, 
upon the model of Addison ; but he did not 
appear to rehsh, or to perceive the beauty 
which they derived from their ex([uisite 
simplicity, and spoke of tliein with indiffe- 
rence, when compared with the point, and 
antithesis, and quaiutness of Junius. Thi 
influence of this taste is very perceptible in 
his own prose compositions, although their 
great and various excellences render some 
of them scarcely less objects of wonder 
than his poetical performances. The late 
Dr. Robertson used to say, that considering 
his education, the former seemed to him the 
more extraordinary of the two. 

" His memory was uncommonly retentive, 
at least for poetry, of which he recited to me, 
frequently long compositions with the most 
minute accuracy. They were chiefly ballads, 
and other pieces in our Scottish dialect ; 
great part of them, he told ine, he had 
learned in his childhood from his mother, 
who delighted in such recitations, and whose 
poetical taste, rude as it probably was, gave, 
it is presumable, the first direction to her 
son's genius. 

" Of the more polished verses which acci- 
dentally fell into his hands in his early 
years, he mentioned particularly the recom- 
mendatory poems by different authors, pre- 
fixed to Hervey's Meditations ; a book 
which has always had a very wide circula- 
tion among such of the country people of 
Scotland as affect to unite some degree of 
taste with their religious studies. And 
tiiese poems (although they are certainly 
below mediocrity) he continued to read with 
a degree of rapture beyond expression. He 
took notice of this fact himself, as a proof 
liow much the taste is liable to be influ- 
enced by accidental circumstances. 

" His father appeared to me, from the 
account he gave of him, to have been a 
respectable and worthy character, possessed 
of a mind superior to what might have been 
expected from his station in life. He as- 
cribed much of his own principles and feel- 
ings to the early impressions he had received 
from his instructions and example. 1 recol- 
lect that he once applied to him (and, he 
added, that the passage was a literal state- 
ment of the fact) the two last lines of the 
following passage in the Minstrel, the whole 
of which he repeated with great enthusiasm : 

' Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, 
When fate, relenting, lets the flower revive; 

Shall nature's voice, to man alone unjust, 
Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to 
live! 



LITERARY RECEPTION OF BURNS. 



41 



Is it *■'■ 'his fair virtue oft Trm=t strive 

Witli (lisappointincnt, ptnurv, nnd p;iin ? 
Ko ! Heaven's immortal spring sliall yet 
arrive ; 
Anil man's majestic beauty bloom ajjain, 
Bright thro' th' eternal year of love's tri- 
umphant reisjn. [taught: 
This truth sublime his simple sire had 
In sooth, 'twas almost all the shepherd 
knew.' 

"With respect to Bnms's early education, 
I cannot say anything with certainty. He 
always spoke witli respect and gratitude of 
the schoolmaster who had tau;;ht him to 
read Ens;lish, and who, tindinsr in his scholar 
a more tlian onhnary ardour for knowlediie, 
had been at pains to instruct him in the 
grammatical principles of the lans;na£;e. He 
beg'an the study of I^atin, but dropt it 
before he had finished the verbs. I liave 
sometimes heard him quote a few Latin 
words, such as omnia vincit amor, &c., but 
they seemed to be such as he had caught 
from conversation, and which he repeated 
by rote. I think he had a project, after he 
came to Edinburgh, of prosecuting the 
study under his intimate friend, the late 
Mr. Nicol, one of the masters of the gram- 
mar-school here ; but I do not know that 
he ever proceeded so far as to make the 
attempt. 

" He certainly possessed a smattering of 
French ; and if he had an affectation in 
anything, it was in introducing occasionally 
a word or phrase from that languaire. It is 
possible that his knowledge in this respect 
might be more extensive tlian I suppose it 
to be ; but this you can learn from his more 
intimate acquaintance. It would be worth 
while to inquire, whether he was able to 
read the French authors with such facility 
as to receive from thera any improvement 
to his taste. For my own part, I doubt it 
much ; nor would I believe it, but on very 
strons: and pointed evidence. 

" If my memory does not fail me. he was 
well instructed in arithmetic, and knew 
something of practical geometry, particti- 
larly of surve\ang. All his other attaui- 
ments were entirely his o\ra. 

" The last time I saw him was during the 
winter 1788-89,(59) when he passed an 
evening with me at Drumseugh, in the 
neighbottrhood of Edinburgh, where I was 
then living. My friend, .Mr. Alison, was 
the only otlicr person in company. I never 
saw him more agreeable or interesting. ^ 
present which Mr. Alison sent him after- 
wards of his Essays on Taste, drew from 
Burns a letter of acknowledgment, which I 
remember to have read with some degree of 



surprise, at the distinct conception he ap 
pearcd from it to have formed of the general 
principles of the doctrine of associntion." (GO) 

The scene that opened on our bard in 
Edinl)urgh was altogether new, and in a 
variety of other res))ects highly interesting, 
especially to one of his disposition of mind. 
To use an expression of his own, he found 
himself "suddenly translated from the 
veriest shades of life," into the presence, 
aiul, indeed, into the society, of a number 
of persons, previously known to him by 
report as of the highest distinction in his 
country, and whose characters it was natural 
for him to exaimne with no common ciu"i- 
osity. (61) 

From the men of letters, in general, his 
reception was particidarly flattering. The 
late Dr. Robertson, Dr. Blair, Dr. Gregory, 
Mr, Stewart, Mr. Mackenzie, and IMr. Fraser 
Tytler, may be mentioned in the list of 
those who perceived his imcommon talents, 
who acknowledged more especially his 
powers in conversation, and who interested 
themselves in the cultivation of his 
genius. (62) In Edinburgh literary and 
fashionable society are a good deal mixed. 
Our bard was an acceptable guest in the 
gayest and most elevated circles, and fre- 
quently received from female beauty and 
elegance those attentions above all others 
most grateful to him. (G3) At the table of 
Lord Jlonboddo he was a freqtient guest ; 
and while he enjoyed the society, and par- 
took of the hospitalities of the venerable 
jiidge, he experienced the kindness and C(m- 
desceusion of his lovely and accomplished 
daughter. The singidar beauty of this 
young lady was illuminated by that happy 
expression of comitenance which results 
from the union of cultivated taste and 
superior understanding with the finest affec- 
tions of the mind. The influence of such 
attractions was not unfelt by our poet. 
"Tliere has not been anything like IMiss 
Burnet," said he in a letter to a friend, " in 
all the combination of beauty, grace, and 
goodness, the Creator has formed since 
Milton's Eve on the first day of her exist- 
ence." In his Address to Edinburgh, she 
is celebrated in a strain of stiU greater 
elevation : — 

" Fair Piurnet strikes th' adomincr eye, 
Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine I 
I sec the Sire of Love on high, 
And own his work indeed divine !" 

Tliis lovely woman died a few years after- 
wards in the flower of youth. Our bard 
expressed his sensibility on that occasion, 
in verses addressed to her memory. 



43 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



Amon;5 the men of rank and fashion, 
Burns was particularly distinguished by 
James, Earl of Glencairn. ((54) Oa the 
motion of this nobleman, tlie Caledonian 
Hunt, an association of the principal of the 
uobility and gentry of Scotland, extended 
their patronage to our bard, and admitted 
him to their gay orgies. He repaid their 
notice by a dedication of the enlarged and 
improved edition of his poems, in which he 
has celebrated their patriotism and indepen- 
dence in very animated terms. 

"I congratulate my country that the blood 
of her ancient heroes runs uncontaminated, 
and that, from your courage, knowledge, and 
public spirit, she may expect protection, 
wealth, and liberty. ******* 
May corruption shrink at your kindling in- 
dignant glance ; and may tyranny in the 
ruler, and licentiousness in the people, 
equally find in you an inexorable foe." 

It is to be presumed that these generous 
sentiments, uttered at an era singularly 
propitious to indejiendence of character and 
conduct, were favourably received by the 
persons to whom they were addressed, and 
that they were echoed from every bosom, as 
well as from that of the Earl of Glencairn. 
This accomplished nobleman, a scholar, a 
man of taste and sensibdity, died soon 
afterwards. Had he lived, and had his 
power equalled his wishes, Scotland mig~'t 
stiU have exulted in the genius, instead of 
lamenting the early fate of her favourite 
bard. 

A taste for letters is not always conjoined 
with hal)its of temperance and regularity ; 
and Edinburgh, at the period of which we 
speak, contained, perhaps, an uncommon 
proportion of men of considerable talents, 
devoted to social excesses, in which their 
talents were wasted and debased. 

Burns entered into several parties of this 
description, with the usual vehemence of his 
character. His generous affections, his 
ardent eloquence, his brilliant and daring 
imagination, fitted him to be the idol of such 
associations ; and accustoming himself to 
conversation of unlimited range, and to festive 
indulgences that scorned restraint, he gra- 
dually lost some portion of his relish for tiie 
more pure, but less poignant pleasures, to be 
found in the circles of taste, elegance, and 
literature. This sudden alteration in his 
habits of life operated on him physically as 
well as morally. The humble fare of an 
Ayrshire peasant he had exchanged for the 
luxuries of the Scottish metropolis, and the 
effects of this change on his ardent constitu- 
tion could not be inconsiderable. But 



whatever influence might be produced on his 
conduct, his excellent understanding suffered 
no coiTesponding debasement. He estimated 
his friends and associates of every descrip- 
tion at their proper value, and appreciated 
his own conduct with a precision that might 
give scope to much curious and melancholy 
reflection. He saw his danger, and at times 
formed resolutions to guard against it ; but 
he had embarked on the tide of dissipation, 
and was borne along its stream. 

Of the state of his mind at this time, an 
authentic, though imperfect, document re- 
mains, in a book which he procured in the 
spring of 1787, for the purpose, as he himself 
informs ns, of recording in it whatever 
seemed worthy of observation. The following 
extracts may serve as a specimen : — 

"Edinburgh, April 9, 1787. 

" As I have seen a good deal of human 
life in Edinburgh, a great many characters 
which are new to one bred up in the shades 
of life as I have been, I am determined to 
take down my remarks on the spot. Gray 
observes, in a letter to Mr. Palgrave, that 
' half a word fixed upon, or near the spot, is 
worth a cart-load of recollection.' I don't 
know how it is with the world in general, 
but with me, making my remarks is by no 
means a solitary pleasure. 1 want some one 
to laugh with me, some one to be grave with me, 
some one to please me and help my discrimi- 
nation, with his or her own remark, and at 
times, no doubt, to admire my acuteness and 
penetration. The world are so busied with 
selfish pursuits, ambition, vanity, interest, or 
pleasure, that very few think it worth their 
while to make any observation on what 
passes aroimd them, except where that ob- 
servation is a Slicker, or branch of the darling 
plant they are rearing in their fancy. Nor 
am I sure, notwithstanding all the senti- 
mental flights of novel-wTiters, and the sage 
philosophy of moralists, whether we are 
capable of so intimate and cordial a coalition 
of fiiendship, as that one man may pour out 
his bosom, his every thought and floating 
fancy, his very inmost soul, with unreserved 
confidence to another, without hazard of 
losing part of that respect which man deserves 
from man ; or, from the unavoidable imper- 
fections attending human nature, o£ one day 
repenting his confidence. 

" For these reasons I am determined to 
make these pages my confidant. I will sketch 
every character that any way strikes me, to 
the best of my power, with unshrinking 
justice. I will insert anecdotes, and take 
down remarks, in the old law phrase, tfiV/iuu/ 



iiURNS AND HIS CONTEMPORAKIES. 



43 



feud or favour. "Where I hit on any thing 
clever, my o\ni applause will in some measure 
feast my vanity ; and, beir;;iiig Patroclus' 
and Achates' pardon, 1 think a lock and key 
a secnrity, at least equal to the bosom of any 
friend whatever. 

" 3Iy own private story likewise, my love 
adventures, my rambles; the frowns and 
smiles of fortune on my hardship ; my poems 
and fragments, that must never see the light, 
shall be occasionally inserted. In short, 
never did four shiliins-s purchase so much 
friendship, since confidence went first to 
market, or honesty was set up to sale. 

"To these seemingly invidious, but too 
just ideas of Imraau friendship, I would 
cheerfully make one ex('ei)U(jn — the connec- 
tion between two persons of different sexes, 
when their interests are united and absorbed 
by the tie of love — 

' When thousrht meets thought, ere from the 

lips it part, [heart.' 

And each warm wish springs mutual from the 

There confidence, confidence that exalts them 
the more in one another's opinion, that en- 
dears them the more to each other's hearts, 
unreservedly ' reigns and revels.' But this 
is not my lot ; and, in my situation, if I am 
wise (which, by the bye, I have no great 
chance of being), my fate should be cast 
with the Psalmist's sparrow, ' to watch alone 
on the house tops.' Oh the pity ! 
• «**«• 

"There are few of the sore evils under 
the sun give me more uneasiness and 
chagrin than the comparison how a man of 
genius, nay of avowed worth, is received 
every where, with the reception which a 
mere ordinary character, decorated with the 
trappings and futile distinctions of fortinie, 
meets. I imagine a man of abilities, his 
breast glowing with honest pride, conscious 
that men are born equal, still giving honour 
to wliom honour is due; he meets at a great 
man's table, a Squire something, or a Sir 
somebody ; he knows the noble landlord, at 
heart, gives the bard or whatever he is, a 
share of his good wishes, beyond, perhaps, 
any one at table ; yet how w ill it mortify 
him to see a fellow whose abilities would 
scarcely have made an eif/htpenny tailor, and 
whose heart is not worth three farthings, 
meet with attention and notice, that are 
withheld from the son of genius and 
poverty ! 

" The noble Glencairn has wounded me to 
tbe soul here, because I dearly esteem, 
respect, and love him. lie showed so much 
attention, engrossing attention, one day, I 
to the ouly blockhead at table (the whole 



company consisted of his lordship, dnnder- 
pate, and myselfj, that I was witliiu half a 
point of throwing down my gage of con- 
temptuous defiance ; but he shook my hand, 
and looked so benevolently good at parting 
God bless him ! though I should never see 
him more, I shall love him until my dying 
day ! I am pleased to think I am so capable 
of the throes of gratitude, as I am miserably 
deficient in some other virtues. 

" ^\'lth Dr. likiir I am more at my ease. I 
never respect him with humble veneration ; 
but when he kindly interests himself in my 
welfare, or still more, when he descends 
from his pinnacle, and meets me on equal 
ground in conversation, my heart overflows 
with what is called liking. Wlien he neg- 
lects me for the mere carcase of greatness, 
or when his eye measures the difference of 
our points of elevation, I say to myself, with 
scarcely any emotion, what do I care for hiia 
or his pomp either ? " 

The intentions of the poet in procuring 
this book, so fully described by himself, 
were very irajjerfectly executed. He has 
inserted in it few or no incidents, but seve- 
ral observations and reflections, of which 
the greater part that are proper for the 
public eye will be found interwoven in his 
letters. The most curious particulars iu 
the book are the delineations of the charac- 
ters he met with. These are not numerous; 
but they are chiefly of persons of distinc- 
tion in the republic of letters, and nothing 
but the delicacy and respect due to li\iiig 
characters prevents us from committing 
them to the press. Though it appears that 
in his conversation he was sometimes dis- 
posed to sarcastic remarks on the men with 
whom he lived, nothing of this kind is dis- 
coverable in these more deliberate efforts of 
his understanding, which, while they exhibit 
great clearness of discrimination, manifest 
also the wish, as well as the power, to 
bestow high and generous praise. 

As a specimen of these delineations, we 
give the character of Dr. Blair, who has 
now paid the debt of nature, in the full 
confidence that this freedom will not be 
found inconsistent with the respect and 
veneration due to that excellent man, the 
last stir in the literary constellation, by 
which the metropolis of Scotland was, ia 
the earlier part of the present reign, so 
beautifully illuminated. 

" It is not easy forming an exact judg- 
ment of any one ; but, in my o|)inion. Dr. 
Blair is merely an astonishing proof of 
what industry and ai)plication can da 
Natur d parts like his are frequently to be 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



met with ; his viinity is proverbially known ■ 
among^ his acquaintance ; but he is justly at i 
the head of what may be called tine writiusr ; : 
and a critic ot the tirst, the very first, rank ' 
ill prose ; even in poetry, a bard of Nature's 
making can only take the pas of hi.« He 
has a heart not of the very finest water, but 
far from being an ordinary one. In short, 
he is truly a worthy and. most respectable 
character." 

[iMr. Cromek informs us that one of the 
poet's remarks, when he first came to Edin- 
burgh, was, that between the men of rustic 
life and the polite world, he observed little 
difference ; tliat in the former, though un- 
polished by fashion and unenlightened by 
science, he had found much observation, 
and much intelligence ; but a refined and 
accomplished woman was a thing almost 
new to him, and of which he had formed 
but a very inadequate idea. Mr. Lockhart 
adds, that there is reason to believe that 
Burns was much more a favourite amongst 
the female than the male part of elevated 
Edinburgh society to which he was intro- 
duced, and that in consequence, in all pro- 
bability, of the greater deference he paid to 
the gentler sex. " It is sutticiently apparent," 
adds Mr. L., " that there were many points 
in Burns's conversational habits, which 
men, accustomed to the delicate observances 
of refined society, might be more willing 
to tolerate under the first excitement of 
personal curiosity, than fi-om any very de- 
liberate estimate of the claims of such a 
genius, under such circumstances developed. 
He by no means restricted his sarcastic 
observations on those wliom he encountered 
in the world to the confidence of his note- 
book, but startled ears polite with the 
utterance of audacious epigrams, far too 
witty not to obtain general circulation in 
so small a society as that of the northern 
capital, far too bitter not to produce deep 
resentment, far too numerous not to spread 
fear almost as widely as admiration." An 
example of liis unscrupulousness is thus 
given by Mr. Cromek. " At a private 
breakfast, in a literary circle of Edinburgh, 
the conversation turned on the poetical 
merit and pathos of Gray's Elegy, a poem 
of which he was enthusiastically fond. A 
clergyman present, remarkable for his love 
of paradox, and for his eccentric notions 
upon every subject, distinguished himself 
by an injudicious and ill-timed attack on 
this exquisite poem, which Burns, with 
generous warmth for the reputation of 
Gray, manfully defended. As the gentle- 
man's remarks were rather general than 



specific. Burns urged him to bring forwarfl 
the passages whicfihe thought exceptionable. 
He made several attempts to quote the 
poem, but always in a blundering, inaccurate 
manner. Burns bore all this for a good 
while with his usual good-natured forbear- 
ance, till at length, goaded by the fastidious 
criticisms and wretched quibblings of his 
opponent, he roused himself, and with an 
eye flasliing contempt and indignation, and 
with great vehemence of gesticulation, he 
thus addressed the cold critic : ' Sir, I now 
perceive a man may be an excellent judge 
of poetry by square and rule, and after all, 
be a d — d blockhead.' " " To pass from 
these trifles," says Mr. Lockart, " it needs 
no effort of imagination to conceive what 
the sensations of an isolated set of scholars 
(almost all either clergymen or professors) 
must have been in the presence of this big- 
boned, black-browed, brawny stranger, with 
his great flashing eyes, who having forced liis 
way among them from the plough-tad, at a 
single stride, manifested, in the whole 
strain of his bearing and conversation, a 
most thorough conviction, that, in the 
society of the most eminent men of his 
nation, he was exactly where he was en- 
tided to be ; hardly deigned to flatter them 
by exhibiting even an occasional symptom 
of being flattered by their notice ; by turns 
calmly measured himself against the most 
cidtivated understandings of his time in 
discussion ; overpowered the bo)i mots of 
the most celeljrated convivialists by broad 
floods of merriment, impregnated with all 
the burning life of genius ; astounded 
bosoms habitually enveloped in the thrice- 
plied folds of social reserve, by compelling 
them to tremble, nay, to tremble visibly, 
beneath the fearless touch of natural pathos ; 
and all this without indicating the smallest 
willingness to be ranked among those pro- 
fessional ministers of excitement, who are 
content to be paid in money and smiles for 
doing what the spectators and auditors 
would be ashamed of doing in their own 
persons, even if they had the power of doing 
it ; and, last, and probably worst of all, 
who was known to be in the habit of eulv 
vening societies which they would have 
scor^.ed to approach, still more frequently 
than their own, with eloquence no less 
magi-ificent; with wit in all likelihood still 
more daring; often enough, as the superiors 
whom he fronted without alarm, might have 
guessed from the beginning, and had, ere 
long, no occasion to guess, with wit pointed 
at themselves."] 

" By the new edition of his poems, (65) 



THE DIARY. 



45 



Burns acquired a sxim of money that 
enabled him not only to partake of the 
pleasures of Edinburgh, but to j^ratify a 
desire he had long entertained, of visiting 
those parts of his native country most at- 
tractive by their beauty or their grandeur ; 
a desire which the return of sunnner natu- 
rally revived. The scenery on the banks of 
the Tweed, and of its tributary streams, 
strongly interested his fancy ; and accord- 
ingly he left Edinburgh on the Gth of May, 
1787, on a tour thro\igh a country so much 
celebrated in the rural songs of Scotland. 
He travelled on horseback, and was accom- 
panied, during some part of his journey, by 
Mr. Ainslie, now writer to the signet, a 
gentleman who enjoyed much of his friend- 
ship and of liis confidence. Of this tour a 
journal remains, which, however, contains 
only occasional remarks on the scenery, and 
which is chiefly occupied with an account of 
the author's different stages, and with his 
observations on the various characters to 
whom he was introduced. In the course of 
this tour he visited Mr. Ainslie of Berrywell, 
the father of his companion ; Mr. Brydone, 
the celebrated traveller, to whom he carried 
a letter of introduction from Mr. jMacken- 
zie ; the Rev. Dr. SomerviUe of Jedburgh, 
the historian ; Mr. and Mrs. Scott of 
Wauchope; Dr. Elliott, a physician, retired 
to a roa intic spot on the banks of the 
Pioole ; Sir .Alexander Don; Sir James Hall 
of Dunglass ; and a great variety of other 
respectable characters. Every where the 
fame of the poet had spread before him, 
and every where he received the most hos- 
pitable and flattering attentions. At Jed- 
burgh he continued several days, and was 
honoured by the magistrates with the free- 
dom of their borough. The following may 
serve as a specimen ot this tour, which the 
perpetual reference to lining characters pre- 
vents our giving at large : — 

" Saturday, May tjth. Left Edinburgh — 
Lammer-muir- hills, miserably dreary in ge- 
neral, but at times very picturesqtie. 

" Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the 
Merse. Reach Berrywell. • » « 
The family meeting with my compaf))ion de 
voyage, very charming ; particularly the 
•ister. » « « 

"Sunday. Went to Church at Dunse. 
Hearil Dr. Bowmaker. 

"Monday. Coldstream — glorious river 
Tweed— clear and majestic— tine bridge — 
dine at Coldstream with ]Mr. Ainslie and 
Mr. Foreman. Beat Mr. Foreman in a 
dispute about Voltaire. Drink tea at Lenel- 
Housc with Mr. and Mrs. Brydone. * * * 



Reception extremely flattering. Sleep at 
Coldstream. 

" Tuesday. Breakfast at Kelso — charm, 
ing situation of the town — fine bridge over 
the Tweed. Enchanting views and pros- 
pects on both sides of the river, especially 
on the Scotch side. • ♦ * Visit 
Roxburgh Palace — fine situation of it. 
Ruins of Roxburgh Castle — a holly-bush 
growing where James II. was accidentally 
killed by the bursting of a cannon. A small 
old religious ruin, and a fine old garden 
planted by the religious, rooted out and 
destroyed by a Hottentot, a maitre d' hotel 
of the duke's — chmate and soil of Ber- 
wickshire, and even Roxburghshire, superior 
to .Vyrshire — bad roads — turnip and sheep 
husbandry, their great improvements. * * * 
Low markets, consequently low lands — mag- 
niiicence of farmers and farm-houses. Come 
up the Teviot. and up the Jed to Jedburgh 
to lie, and so wish myself good-night. 

" Wednesday. Breakfast with iMr. Fair. 
* * * * Channing romantic situation 
of Jedburgh, with gardens and orchards, 
intermingled among the houses and the 
ruins of a once magniticicent cathedral. All 
the towiis here have the appearance of old 
rude grandeur, but extremely idle. Jed, a 
fine romantic little river. Dined \nth 
Captain Rutherford, * • * return to 
Jedburgh. Walk up the Jed with some 
ladies to be shown Love-lane, and Black- 
burn, two fairy-scenes. Introduced to Mr. 
Potts, writer, and to Mr. SomerviUe, the 
clergyman of the parish, a man and a 
gentleman, but satUy addicted to punning. 
(GUj. » » » » » 

" Jedburfjh Saturday. Was presented by 
the magistrates with the freedom of the 
town. 

" Took farewell of Jedburgh with some 
melancholy sensations. 

"Monday, May litk, Kelso. Dine with 
the farmers' club — all gentlemen talking of 
high matters — each of them keeps a hunter 
from £30 to £50 value, and attends the fox- 
hunting club in the county. Go out with 
Mr. Ker, one of the club, and a friend of 
Jlr. Ainslie's, to sleep. In his mind and 
manners, ]\Ir. Ker is astonishingly like my 
dear old friend Robert Muir — every thing 
in his house elegant. He oilers to accom- 
pany me in my English tour. 

" Tuesday. Dine with Sir Alexander 
Don — a very wet day. • • * Sleep at 
Jlr. Kcr's again, and set out next day for 
Melrose — visit Dryburgh, a fine old ruined 
abbey, by the way. Cross the Leader, and 
come up the Tweed to Melrose. Dine 



4S 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



there, and visit that far-famed glorious 
nun — come to Selkirk up the banks of 
Kttrick. The whole country hereabouts, 
both on Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably 
stony." 

Having spent three weeks in exploring 
this interesting scenery, Burns crossed over 
into Northumberland. Mr. Ker, and Mr. 
Hood, two gentlemen with whom he had 
become acquainted in the course of his tour, 
accompanied him. He visited Alnwick 
Castle, the princely seat of the Duke of 
Northumberland ; the Hermitage and Old 
Castle of Warkworth ; Morpeth and New- 
castle. In this last town he spent two 
days, and then proceeded to the south-west 
by Ilexam and Wardrue, to Carlisle. After 
spending a day at Carlisle with his friend 
Jlr. Mitchel, he returned into Scotland, and 
at Annan his journal terminates abruptly. 

Of the various persons with whom he 
became acquainted in the course of this 
journey, he has, in general, given some ac- 
count, and almost always a favourable one. 
That on the banks of the Tweed, and of 
the Teviot, our bard shoiUd find nymphs 
that were beautiful, is what might be con- 
fidently presumed. Two of these are par- 
ticularly described in his jmrnal. But it 
does not appear that the scenery, or its in- 
habitants, produced any effort of his muse, 
as was to have been wished and expected. 
From Annan, Burns proceeded to Dumfries, 
and thence through Sanquhar, to Mossgiel, 
near Mauchline, in Ayrshire, where he 
arrived about the 8th of June, 1787, after a 
long absence of six busy and eventful 
months. It will easily be conceived with 
what pleasure and pride he was received by 
his mother, his brothers, and sisters. He 
had left them poor, and comparatively 
friendless ; he returned to them high in 
public estimation, and easy in his circum- 
stances He returned to them unchanged 
in his ardent alfections, and ready to share 
with them to the uttermost farthing, the 
pittance that fortune had bestowed. (67) 

Having remained wth them a few days. 
he proceeded again to Edinburgh, and im- 
mediately set out on a journey to the 
Highlands. Of this tour no particulars have 
been found among his manuscripts. A 
letter to his friend Mr. Ainslie, dated Airo- 
cliar, hy Lochlong, June 28, 1787, commeucea 
as follows : — 

" I write you this on my tour through a 
country where savage streams tumble over 
savage motmtains, thinly overspread with 
savage flocks, which starvingly support as 
savage inhabitants. My last stage was 



Inverary — to-mnrrow night's stage, Dum- 
barton. I ought sooner to have answered 
your kind letter, but you know I am a man 
of many sins." 

Part of a letter from our bard to a friend 
(68), giving some account of his joiumey, has 
been communicated to the editor. The 
reader wiU be amused with the following 
extract : — 

"On our return, at a Highland gentl©. 
man's hospitable mansion, we fell in with a 
merry party, and danced till the ladies left 
us, at three in the morning. Our dancing 
was none of the French or English insipid 
formal movements ; the ladies sang Scotch 
songs like angels, at intervals : then we flew 
at Bub at the bewster, Tallochcjorum, Loch 
Enoch side (69), &c., like midges sporting 
in the mottie sun, or craws prognosticating 
a storm in a hairst day. When the dear 
lasses left us, we ranged round the bowl till 
the good-fellow hoiu: of six ; except a few 
minutes that we went out to pay our devo- 
tions to the glorious lamp of day peering 
over the towering top of Benlomond. We 
all kneeled ; our worthy landlord's son held 
the bowl, each man a full glass in his hand ; 
and I, as priest, repeated some rhyming non- 
sense, like Thomas-a-Rhymer's prophecies I 
suppose. After a small refreshment of the 
gifts of Somnus, we proceeded to spend tho 
day on Lochlomond, and reached Dumbarton 
in the evening. We dined at another good 
fellow's house, and consequently pusli'd the 
bottle ; when we went out to mount our 
horses, we found ourselves ' No vera fou but 
gaylie yet.' My two friends and I rode 
soberly down the Loch side, till by came 
a Highlandmati at the gallop, on a tolerably 
good horse, but which had never known the 
ornaments of iron or leather. We scorned 
to be out-galloped by a Highlandman, so off 
we started, whip and spur. My companion % 
though seemingly gaily mounted, fell sadly 
astern ; but my old mare, Jenny Geddes, 
one of the Rosinante family, she strained 
past the Highlandman in spite of all his 
eflforts, with the hair-halter : just as I was 
passing him, Donald whcd^^d his horse, as if 
to cross before me to mar my progress, %\ hen 
down came his horse, and threw his breekless 
rider in a dipt hedge; and down came 
Jenny Geddes over all, and my hardship 
between her and the Highlandman's horse. 
Jenny Geddes trode over me with such 
cautious revtrenc3, that matters were not so 
bad as might well have been expected ; so I 
came oif with a few cuts and bruises, and a 
thorough resolution to be a pattern of so- 
briety for the future. 



BURNS AND NICOL. 



47 



"I have yet fixed on nothing with respect 
to the serious business of life. I am, just as 
usual, a rhyming, mason-making, raking, 
aimless, idle fellow. However, I shall some- 
where have a farm soon. I was going to say, 
a wife too; but that must never be my 
blessed lot. I am but a younger son of the 
house of Parnassus, and, like other younger 
sons of great families, I may mtrigue, if I 
choose to nm all risks, but must not marry. 

"I am afraid I have almost ruined one 
source, the princii)al one, indeed, of my 
former happiness — that eternal propensity I 
always had to fall in love. My heart no 
more glows with feverish rapture. I have no 
paradisiacal evening interviews stolen from 
the restless cares and prying inhabitants of 
this weary world. I have only * * * *. 
This last is one of your distant acquaintance, 
has a fine figure, and elegant manners, and, 
in the train of some great fulks whom you 
know, has seen the politest quarters in 
Europe. I do like her a good deal; but 
what piques me is her conduct at the com- 
mencement of our acquaintance. I frequently 

visited her when I was in , and after 

passing regularly the intermediate degrees 
between the distant formal bow and the 
familiar grasp round the waist, I ventured, 
in my careless way, to talk of friendship in 
rather ambiguous terms ; and, after her 

return to , I wrote to her in the same 

style. Miss, construing my words farther I 
suppose than I intended, flew oflf in a tangent 
of female dignity and re serve, like a moim tain- 
lark in an April morning ; and wrote nie an 
answer which measured me out very com- 
pletely what an immense way I had to travel 
before I could reach the climate of her favour. 
But 1 am an old hawk at the sport ; and 
WTote her such a cool, deliberate, prudent 
reply, as brought my bird from her aerial 
towerings, pop down at my foot hke corporal 
Trim's hat. (70j 

" As for the rest of my acts, and my wars, 
and all my wise sajings, and why my mare 
was called Jenny Geddes, they shall be 
recorded in a few weeks hence, at Liidithgow, 
in the cluronicles of your memory, by 

"Robert Burns." 

From this journey Bums returned to his 
friends iu Ayrshire, with whom he spent the i 
month of July, renewing his friendships, and 
extending his acquaintance throughout the 
country, where he was now very generally j 
known and aduiired. In August he again ! 
visited Eduiburgh, whence he undertook i 
another journey towards the middle of this , 
moiuh, in company with Mr. M. Adair, now ' 

6 



i)r. Adair, of Ilarrowgate (71), of which tbn 
gentlemau has favoured us with the follinvin;^ 
account : — 

'■ Burns and I left Edinburgh together i?i 
August, 1737. We rode by Liuglithgow 
and Carron, to Stirling. We visited the iron 
works at Carron, with which the poet was 
forcibly struck. The resemblance between 
that place and its inhabitants, to the caxe of 
the Cyclops, which must have occurred to 
every classical reader, presented itself to 
Burns. At Stirhug tiie prospects from tlie 
castle strongly interested him ; in a foiincr 
visit to which, his national feelings had liceu 
powerfidly excited by the ruinous and riX^Siss 
state of the hall in which the Scottish par- 
liaments had frequently been held. His 
indignation had vented itself in some imjini- 
deiit, butnotunpoetical lines, which had given 
much offence, and which he took this opportu- 
nity of erasing, by breaking the pane of tlie 
window at the inn on which they were written. 

" At Stirling we met with a company of 
travellers from Edinburgh, among whom was 
a character in many respects congenial with 
that of Burns. This was Nicol, one of th 
teachers of the High Grammar School at 
Edinburgh — the same wit and power ol 
conversation, the same fondness for convivial 
society, and thoughtlessness of to-morrow, 
characterised both. Jacobitical principles in 
politics were common to both of them ; 
and these have been suspected, since tlie 
revolution of France, to have given place 
in each to opinions apparently opposite. (72) 
1 regret that I have preserved no iiiem- 
orahilia of their conversation, either on 
tliis or on other occasions, when I happened 
to meet them together. Many songs were 
sung ; which I mention for the sake of ob 
serving, that when Burns was called on in 
his turn, he was accustomed, instead of 
singing, to recite one or other of his ow& 
shorter poems, with a tone and emphasis 
which, though not correct or harmonious, 
were impressive and pathetic. This he did 
on the present occasion. 

"From Stirling we went next morning 
through the romantic and fertile vale of 
Devon to Harvieston, in Clackmannanshire, 
then inhabited by Mrs. Hamilton (73), with 
the younger part of whose family Burns had 
been previously acquainted. He introduced 
me to the family, and there was formed my 
first actiuaiiitaiice with Mrs. HamUtoii'a 
eldest daughter, to whom I have been 
married for nine years. Thus was 1 in- 
debted to Burns for a connection from 
which I have derived, and expect farther tw 
derive, much happiness. 



48 



LIFE OP BURNS. 



"Duriii!? a residence of about ten days at 
Ilarviestoii, we made excursions to visit 
various parts of the surrounding scenery, 
inferior to none in Scotland in beauty, 
Bubliniity, and romantic interest; par- 
ticularly Castle Campbell, the ancient seat 
of the family of Argyle ; and the famous 
cataract of the Devon, called the Caldron 
Linn ; and the Rumbling Bridge, a single 
broad arch, tlirow^i by the devil, if tradition 
is to be believed, across the river, at about 
the lieight of a hundred feet above its bed. 
1 am surprised that none of these scenes 
should have called forth an exertion of 
Burns's muse. But I doubt if he had much 
taste for the picturesque. I well remember, 
that the ladies at Harvieston, who accom- 
panied us on this jaunt, expressed their 
disappointment at his not expressing, in 
more glowing and fervid language, his im- 
pressions of the Caldron Linn scene, cer- 
tainly highly sublime, and somewhat horrible. 

"A visit to Mrs. Bruce of Clackmannan, 
a lady abo\ e ninety, the lineal descendant of 
that race which gave the Scottish throne its 
brightest ornament, interested his feelings 
more powerfully. This venerable dame, with 
characteristical dignity, informed me, on my 
observing that I believed she was descended 
from the family of Robert Bruce, that 
Robert Bruce was sprung from her family, 
Tliough almost deprived of speech by a 
paralytic aflection, she preserved her hospi- 
tality and urbanity. She was in possession 
of the hero's helmet and two-handed sword, 
with which she conferred on Burns and 
myself the honour of knighthood, remarking, 
that she had a better right to confer that 
title than some people. * * You 
will, of course, conclude, that the old lady's 
political tenets were as Jacobitical as the 
poet's, a conformity which contributed not a 
little to the cordiality of oiu: reception and 
eniertainment. She gave, as her first toast 
after dinner, Aica' Uncos, or Away with the 
Strangers. Who these strangers were, you 
will readily understand. Mrs. A. corrects 
me by saying it should be Hooi, or Jlooi 
Uncos, a sound used by shepherds to direct 
their dogs to drive away the sheep. (74) 

" We returned to Edinburgh by Kinross 
(on the shore of Lochleven) and Queeusferry. 
I am inclined to think Burns knew nothing 
of poor Michael Bruce, who was then ali\e 
at Kinross, or had died there a short while 
before. A meeting between the bards, or a 
visit to the deserted cottage and early grave 
of poor Bruce, would have been highly 
interesting. (75) 

" At Dunferudine we visited the ruined 



abbey, and the abbey-church, now cou« 
secrated to Presbyterian worship. Here I 
mounted the cutty stool, or stool of re- 
pentance, assuming the character of a 
penitent for fornication ; while Burns, from 
the pulpit, addressed to me a ludicrous 
reproof and exhortation parodied from that 
wliich had been dehvered to himself in 
Ayrshire, where he had, as he assured me, 
once been one of seven who mounted the 
seat of shame together. 

" In the church-yard two broad flag-stones 
marked the grave of Robert Bruce, for whose 
memory Burns had more than common 
veneration. He knelt and kissed the stone 
with sacred fervour, and heartily (suus ut 
mos erat) execrated the worse than Gothic 
neglect of the first of Scottish heroes." (76) 

'J'he surprise expressed by Dr. Adair, in 
his excellent letter, that the romantic 
scenery of the Devon should have failed 
to call forth any exertion of the poet's muse, 
is not in its nature singular ; and the dis- 
appointment felt at his not expressing 
in more glowing language his emotions on 
the sight of the famous cataract of that 
river, is similar to what was felt by the 
friends of Burns on other occasions of the 
same nature. Yet the inference that L'r. 
Adair seems inclined to draw from it, that 
he had little taste for the picturesque might 
be questioned, even if it stood uncon- 
troverted by other evidence. The muse of 
Burns was in a high degree capricious ; she 
came uncalled, and often refused to attend 
at his bidding. Of all the numerous sub- 
jects suggested to him by his friends and 
correspondents, there is scarcely one that he 
adopted. The very expectation that a par- 
ticular occasion would excite the energies 
of fancy, if communicated to Burns, seemed 
in liim, as in other poets, destructive of the 
effect expected. Hence perhaps may be 
explained, why the banks of the Devon and 
of the Tweed form no part of the subjects 
of his song. 

A similar train of reasoning may perhaps 
explain the want of emotion with which he 
viewed the Caldron Linn. Certainly there 
are no affections of the mind more deadened 
by the influence of previous expectation, 
tlian those arising from the sight of natural 
objects, and more especially of objects of 
grandeur. Minute descriptions of scenes, 
of a sublime nature, should never be given 
to those who are about to view them, par- 
ticularly if they are persons of great strength 
and sensibility of imagination. Language 
seldom or Ile^ er conveys an adequate idea of 
such objects, but m the mind of a great poi^t 



LINES ON THE DEVON. 



4» 



it may excite a picture that far transcends 
them. The iniiijiiiiation of Burns might 
form a cataract, in comparison with which 
the Caldron Linn shoidd seem the purling 
of a rill, and even the mighty falls of Niagara 
a humble cascade. (77) 

Whether these suggestions may assist in 
explaining our bard's dcl'.ciency of impres- 
sion on the occasion referred to, or whether 
it ought rather to be imputed to some 
pre-occupation, or indisposition of mind, we 
presume not to decide : but that he was in 
general feelingly alive to the beautiful or 
sublime in scenery, may be supported by 
irresistible evidence. It is true this pleasure 
was greatly heightened in his mind, as might 
be expected, when combined with moral 
emotions of a kind with which it happily 
unites. That under this association Burns 
contemplated the scenery of the Devon with 
the eye of a genuine poet, the following lines 
written at this very period may bear 
witness : — 

♦•on a young lady, (78) kesidinq on the 
banks op the small km:r devon, in 
clackmannanshire, but whose infant 
years were spent in ayrshire. 
How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding 
Devon, [blooming fair ; 

With green-spreacling bushes, and flowers 
But the bonniest flower on the 13anks of the 
Devon [Ayr. 

Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the 
Mild be the sun on this sweet-blushing 
flower [dew ! 

In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the 
And gentle the fail of the soft vernal shower, 
That steals on the evening each leaf to 
renew. 
Oh spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 
AVith chill hoary wing as ye usher the 
dawn ! 
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 
The verdure and pride of the garden and 
lawn ! 
Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies. 
And England triumphant display her proud 
rose ; 
A fairer than either adorns the green vallies 
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering 
flows." 

The different journies already mentioned 
did not satisfy the curiosity of Burns. 
About the beginning of September, he again 
Bet out from Edinburgh on a more extended 
tour to the highlands, in company with 
Jlr. Nicol, with whom he had now con- 
tracted a particular intimacy, which lasted 
during the remainder of his Ufe. IMr. Nicol 
was of Dumfries-shire, of a descent equally 
humble with our poet. Like him he rose 
by the strength of his talents, and fell by 
E 



the strength of his passions. He died in the 
summer of 1797. Having received tlie 
elements of a classical instruction at his 
parish-school, Mr. Nicol made a very rapid 
and singular proficiency; and by early 
undertaking the office of an instructor him- 
self, he acquired the means of entering him- 
self at the University of Edinburgh. There 
he was first a student of theology, then a 
student of medicine, and was afterwards 
employed in the assistance and instruction 
of graduates in medicine, in those parts of 
their exercises in which the Latin language 
is employed. In this situation he was the 
contemporary and rival of the celebrated 
Dr. Brown, whom he resembled in the 
particulars of his history, as well as in the 
leading features of his character. The 
office of assistant-teacher in the High School 
being vacant, it was as usual filled up by 
competition ; and in the face of some pre- 
judices, and perhaps of some well-foiuided 
objections, Mr. Nicol, by superior learning, 
carried it from all the other candidates. 
This office he filled at the period of which 
we speak. 

It is to be lamented, that an acquaintance 
with the WTiters of Greece and Rome does 
not always supply an original want of taste 
and correctness in manners and conduct; 
and where it fails of this effect, it sometimes 
inflames the native pride of temper, which 
treats with disdain those delicacies in which 
it has not learnt to excel. It was thus with 
the fellow-traveller of Burns. Formed by 
nature in a model of great strength, neither 
his person nor his manners had any tincture 
of taste or elegance ; and his coarseness was 
not compensated by that romantic sensi- 
bility, and those towering flights of imagi- 
nation, which distinguished the conversation 
of Burns, in the blaze of whose genius all 
the deficiencies of his manners were ab- 
sorbed and disappeared. 

Mr. Nicol and our poet travelled in a 
post-chaise, which they engaged for the 
journey, and passing through the heart of 
the Highlands, stretched northwards, about 
ten miles beyond Inverness. There they 
bent their course eastward, across the island, 
and returned by the shore of the German 
sea to Edinburgh. In the course of this 
tour, some particulars of which will be found 
in a letter of our bard, they visited a number 
of remarkable scenes, and the imagination of 
Burns was constantly excited by the wild 
and sublime scenery through which he 
passed. Of tliis several proofs may be found 
in the poems formerly printed. (79) Of the 
history of one of these poems, the Huiublr 



60 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



Petition of Bruar Water, and of the bard's 
visit to Athole-house, some particulars will 
be found in his correspondence ; and by the 
favour of Mr. Walker, of Perth, then residing 
in the family of the Duke of Atliole, we 
ure enabled to give the following additional 
account : — 

" On reaching Blair, he sent me notice of 
his arrival (as I had been previously ac- 
quainted with him), and I hastened to meet 
him at the inn. The Duke, to whom he 
brought a letter of introduction, was from 
home ; but the Duchess, being informed of 
his arrival, gave him an invitation to sup 
and sleep at Athole-house. He accepted 
the invitation ; but as the hour of supper 
was at some distance, begged I would in the 
interval be his guide through the grounds. 
It was already growing dark; yet the 
softened though faint and uncertain view of 
their beauties, which the moonlight afforded 
us, seemed exactly suited to the state of his 
feelings at the time. I had often, like 
others, e:-:perienced the pleasures which arise 
from the sublime or elegant landscape, but 
I never saw those feehngs so intense as in 
Burns. When we reached a rustic hut on 
the river Tilt, where it is overhung by a 
woody precipice, from which there is a noble 
waterfall, he threw himself on the heathy 
seat, and gave himself up to a tender, 
abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm of 
imagination. I cannot help thinking it 
might have been here that he conceived the 
idea of the following lines, which he after- 
wards introduced into his poem on Bruar 
Water, when only fancying such a combina- 
tion of objects as were now present to his 
eye. 

' Or by the reaper's nightly beam, 
Mild, chequermg through the trees, 

Rave to my darkly-dashing stream, 
Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.' 

It was with much difficulty I prevailed on 
him to quit this spot, and to be introduced 
ia proper time to supper. 

" ily curiosity was great to see how he 
would conduct himself in company so 
different from what he had been accustomed 
to. (80) His manner was unembarrassed, 
plain, and firm. He appeared to have com- 
plete reliance on his own native good sense 
for directing his behaviour. He seemed at 
once to perceive and to appreciate what was 
due to the company and to himself, and 
never to forget a proper respect for the 
separate species of dignity belonging to 
each. He did not arrogate conversation, 
but, when led into it, he spoke with ease, 
propriety, and manliness. He tried to exert 



his abilities, because he knew it was ability 
alone gave him a title to be there. The 
Duke's fine young family attracted much of 
his admiration; he drank their healths as 
honest men and bonnie lasses, an idea which 
was much applauded by the company, and 
with which he has very fehcitously closed 
his poem. (81) 

"Next day I took a ride with him 
through some of the most romantic part of 
that neighbourhood, and was highly grati- 
fied by his conversation. As a specimen of 
his happiness of conception and strength of 
expression, I will mention a remark which 
he made on his feUow-traveller, who was 
walking at the time a few paces before us. 
He was a man of a robust but clumsy 
person ; and while Burns was expressing to 
me the value he entertained for him, on 
accomit of his vigorous talents, although 
they were clouded at times by coarseness of 
manners ; ' in short,' he added, ' his mind is 
like his body — he has a confounded strong 
in-knee'd sort of a soul.' 

" Much attention was paid to Burns both 
before and after the Duke's return, of which 
he was perfectly sensible, without being 
vain ; and at his departure I recommended 
to him, as the most appropriate return he 
could make, to wTite some descriptive verses 
on any of the scenes with which he had 
been so much delighted. After leaving 
Blair, he, by the Duke's advice, visited the 
Falls of Bruar, and in a few days I received 
a letter from Inverness, with the verses 
enclosed." (82^ 

It appears that the impression made by 
our poet on the noble family of Athole, was 
in a high degree favourable; it is certain he 
was charmed with the reception he received 
from them, and he often mentioned the two 
days he spent at Athole-house as among 
the happiest of his life. He was warmly 
invited to prolong his stay, but sacrificed 
his inclinations to his engagement with 
Mr. Nicol ; which is the more to be re- 
gretted, as he would otherwise have been 
introduced to Mr. Dundas (83) (then daily 
expected on a visit to the Duke), a circum- 
stance that might have had a favourable 
influence on Burns's future fortunes. At 
Athole-house he met, for the first time, 
Mr. Graham of Fintry, to whom he was 
afterwards indebted for his office in the 
Excise. 

The letters and poems which he addressed 
to Mr. Graham, bear testimony of his sen- 
sibility, and justify the supposition, that he 
would not have been deficient in gratitude 
had he been elevated to a situation betiet 



BURNS LEAVES GORDON CASTLE. 



51 



suited to his disposition and to his 
talents. 

A few da5's after leaving Blair of Athole, 
our poet and his fellow-traveller arrived at 
Fochabers. lu the course of the preceding 
winter Burns had been introduced to the 
Duchess of Gordon at Edinbiu-gh, and pre- 
suming on this acquaintance, he proceeded 
to Gordon Castle, leaving Mr. Nicol at the 
inn in the village. At the castle our poet 
was received witli the utmost hospitality 
and kindness, and the family being about to 
sit down to dinner, he was invited to take 
his place at table as a matter of course. 
This invitation he acoepted, and after drink- 
ing a few glasses of wine, he rose up, and 
proposed to inithdraw. On being pressed 
to stay, he mentioned, for the first time, his 
engagement with his fellow-traveller ; and 
his noble host offering to send a servant to 
conduct IMr. Nicol to the castle. Burns in- 
sisted on undertaking that office himself. 
He was, however, accompanied by a gentle- 
man, a particular acquaintance of the duke, 
by whom the invitation was delivered in all 
the forms of pohteness. The invitation 
came too late; the pride of Nicol was 
inflamed into a high degree of passion, by 
the neglect which he had already sufl'ered. 
He had ordered the horses to be put to the 
carriage, being determined to proceed on 
his journey alone ; and they found him 
parading the streets of Fochabers, before 
the door of the inn, venting his anger on 
the postilion, for the slowness with which 
he obeyed his commands. As no explana- 
tion nor entreaty could change the purpose 
of his fellow-traveller, our poet was reduced 
to the necessity of separating from him 
entirely, or of instantly proceeding with him 
on their journey. He chose the last of 
these alternatives ; and seating himself 
beside Nicol in the post-chaise, with morti- 
licatiou and regret, he turned his back on 
Gordon Castle, where he had promised him- 
self some happy days. Sensible, however, 
of the great kindness of the noble family, 
he made the best return in his power, by 
the follnwlng poem : — (84) 

" Streams that glide in orient plains, 
Never bound by winter's chains ; 

Glowing here on golden stands, 
There commi.Vd with foulest stains 

From tyranny's empurpled bands ; 
These, their richly-gleaming waves, 
1 leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
Give mc the stream that sweetly laves 

The banks by Castlc-GorUon. 
Spicy forests, ever gay, 
Shading from the burning ray 



Helpless wretches sold to toil, 
Or the ruthless native's way, 

Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil I 
^\''oods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave ; 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 
The storms by Castle-Gordon. 

Wildly here, without control, 
Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 

In that sober pensive mood 
Dearest to the feeling soul. 

She plants the forest, pours the flood ; 
Life's poor day I'll musing rave, 
And find at night a sheltering cave, 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave, 
By bonnie Castle-Gordon." (86) 

Burns remained at Edinburgh during the 
gTeater part of the winter, 1787-8, (80) and 
again entered into the society and dissipa- 
tion of that metropolis. (87) It appears 
that on the 31st December he attended a 
meeting to celebrate the birth-day of the 
lineal descendant of the Scottish race of 
kings, tiie late unfortunate Prince Charles 
Edward. A\'hatever might have been the 
wish or purpose of the original institutors 
of this annual meeting, there is no reason 
to suppose that the gentlemen of whom it 
was at this time composed, were not per- 
fectly loyal to the king on the throne. It 
is not to be conceived that they entertained 
any hope of, any wish for, the restoration of 
the House of Stuart ; but, over then spark- 
ling wine, they indidged the generous feel- 
ings which the recollection of fallen greatness 
is calculated to inspire, and commemorated 
the heroic valour which strove to sustain it 
in vain — valoiu: worthy of a nobler cause, 
and a happier fortune. On this occasion 
oiur bard took upon himself the office of a 
poet-laureate, and produced an ode, which, 
though deficient in the complicated rhythm 
and polished versification that such com- 
positions require, might on a fair competi- 
tion, where energy of feelings and of 
expression were alone in question, have won 
the butt of ilalmsey from the real laureate 
of that day. 

The following extracts may serve as • 
specimen : — 

* • • • 

"False flatterer, Hope, away I 
Nor think to lure us as in days of yore : 

We solemnise this sorrowing natal day, 
To prove our loyal truth— we can no more; 

And, owning heaven's mysterious sway, 
Submissive low, adore. 

Ye honoured mighty dead ! 
Who nobly perished in the glorious cause, 
Your king, your country, and her laws 1 

From great Dundee, who smiling victory 
led. 



62 



LIFE OF BUENS. 



And foil a martyr in her arms, | 

[Whiit breast of northern ice but -warms ?) 
To hold Balmerino's undyinpr name, [flame, 
\V hose soul of fire, lighted at heaven's hiKh 
Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes 
claim. (88) 

Nor unreveng'd your fate shall be, 

It only lags the fatal hour : 
Tour blood shall ^rith incessant cry 

Awake at last th' unsparini'- power. 
As from the cliff, \\ ith thundering course, 

The snowy ruin smokes aloii;;, 
With doubling speed and gathering force, _ 
Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in 
So vengeance " • » • [the vule ! 

In relating the incidents of our poet's 
life in Edinburgh, we ought to have men- 
tioned the sentiments of respect and sympa- 
thy with which lie traced out the grave of 
his predecessor Fergusson, over whose 
aslies, in tlie Canongate cliurchyard, he ob- 
tained leave to erect a humble monument, 
which will be viewed by reflecting minds 
with no common interest, and wliich will 
awake in the bosom of kindred genius many 
a high emotion. Neither should we pass 
over the continued friendship he experienced 
from a poet then living, the amiable and 
accomphshed Blacklock. To his encourag- 
ing advice it was owing (as has already 
appeared) that Burns, instead of emigrating 
to the West Indies, repaired to Edinburgh. 
lie received him there with all the ardour 
of affectionate admiration — he eagerly in- 
troduced him to the respectable circle of his 
friends — he consulted his interest — he bla- 
zoned his fame — he lavished upon him all 
the kindness of a generous and feeling 
heart, into which nothing selfish or envious 
ever foimd admittance. Among the friends 
to whom he introduced Burns, was Mr. 
Ramsay of Ochtertyre (89), to whom our poet 
paid a visit in the autumn of 1787 [October], 
at his delightful retirement in the neigh- 
bourhood of Stirling, and on the banks of 
the Teith. Of this visit we have the follow- 
ing particulars : — 

" I have been in the company of many 
men of genius" says Mr. Ramsay, " some of 
them poets ; but never witnessed such 
flashes of intellectual brightness as from 
him, the impulse of the moment, sparks of 
celestial fire ! I never was more delighted, 
therefore, than with his company for two 
days, tete-a-tete. In a mixed company I 
should have made little of him ; for, in the 
gamester's phrase, he did not always know 
when to play off and when to play on. 
* * * I not only proposed to him the 
writing of a play similar to the Gentle 
Shepherd, qualem decet e»se sororem, but 



Scottish Georgics, a subject which Thomson 
has by no means exhausted in his Seasons. 
\^'hat beautiful landscapes of rural life and 
mamiers might not have been expected from 
a pencil so faithful and forcible as his, 
which could have exhibited scenes as fami- 
liar and interesting as those in the Gentle 
Shepherd, which every one who knows ou» 
swains in tlieir unadulterated state, in- 
stantly recognises as true to nature. But 
to have executed either of these plans, 
steadiness and abstraction from company 
were wanting, not talents. When I asked 
him whether the Edinburgh literati had 
mended his poems by their criticisms. ' Sir,' 
said he, ' these gentlemen remind me of 
some spinsters in my country, who spin 
their thread so fine that it is neither tit for 
weft nor woof.' He said he had not changed 
a word except one, to please Dr. Blair." (90) 

Having settled with his publisher, Mr. 
Creech, in February 1788, Burns found him- 
self master of nearly five hundred poimds, 
after discharging all his expenses. Two 
hundred pounds he immediately advanced 
to his brother Gilbert, who had taken upon 
himself the support of their aged mother, 
and was struggling with many difficulties in 
the farm of Mossgiel. With the remainder 
of this sum, and some farther eventual pro- 
fits from his poems, he determined on settling 
himself for hfe in the occupation of agricul- 
ture, and took from Mr. ]\Iiller of Dalswin- 
ton (91), the farm of EUisland, on the banks 
of the river Nith, six miles above Dumfries, 
on which lie entered at Wliitsunday, 1788. 
Having been previously recommended to 
the Board of Excise, his name had been 
put on the list of candidates for the humble 
otiice of a ganger or exciseman (92) ; and 
he immediately applied to acquiring the in- 
formation necessary for filhng that office, 
when the honourable board might judge it 
proper to employ him. He expected to be 
called into service in the district in which 
his farm was situated, and vainly hoped to 
unite with success the labours of the farmer 
with the duties of the exciseman. 

When Burns had in this manner arranged 
his plans for futiirity, his generous heart 
turned to the object of his most ardent 
attachment, and, listening to no considera- 
tions but those of honour and affection, he 
joined with her in a public declaration of 
marriage, thus legalising their union, and 
rendering it permanent fur life. 

Before Burns was known in Edinburgh, 
a specimen of his poetry had recommended 
him to Mr. Miller of Dalswinton. Under- 
standing' that he intended to resume the 



AVOWED MARTITAGE OF BURNS. 



63 



life of a farmer, Mr. Miller had invited him, 
in the spring of 1787, to view his estate in 
Nithsdale, offering him at the same time the 
choice of any of his farms out of lease, at 
such a rent as Burns and his friends might 
judge proper. It was not in the nature of 
Burns to take an undue advantage of the 
liberality of Mr. Miller. He proceeded in 
this business, however, with more than 
usual deliberation. Having made choice of 
the farm of Ellisland, he employed two of 
his friends skilled in the value of land, to 
examine it, and, with their approbation, 
offe '(1 a rent to Mr. Miller, which was im- 
mediately accepted. (93) It was not conve- 
nient for Mrs. Burns to remove immediately 
from Ayrshire, and our poet therefore took 
up his residence alone at Ellisland, to pre- 
pare for the recejition of his wife and chil- 
dren, who joined him towards the end of the 
year. 

[Dr. Currie omits all allusion to the cir- 
cumstances which led to a permanent union 
between Burns and his Jean. That the 
mind of the poet, notwithstaniling all past 
irritation, and various entanglements with 
other beauties, was never altogether alienated 
from her, is evident; b\it up to June 1787, 
when he first returned from Edinburgh to 
Mauchline, he certainly did not entertain 
any self-avowed notion of ever again renew- 
ing his acquaintance with her. It was in 
this state of his feelings, that, one day, 
soon after his return from Edinburgh, when 
meeting some friends over a glass at John 
Dow's tavern, close to the residence of his 
once fondly loved mistress, he chanced to 
encounter her in the court behind the inn, 
and was immediately inflamed with all his 
former affection. Their correspondence was 
renewed — ^was attended with its former re- 
sults — and, towards the end of the year, 
when the poet was fixed helplessly in Edin- 
burgh by a bruised limb, her shame becom- 
ing apparent to her parents, she was turned 
out of doors, and would have been utterly 
destitute, if she had not obtained shelter 
from a relation in the village of Ardrossan. 
Jean was once more delivered of twins — - 
girls— on the 3rd of March, 1788: the 
infants died a few days after their birtli. 
In a letter of that date to Mr. R. Ainslie, 
written from Mauchline, Burns says — " I 
found Jean banished, forlorn, destitute, and 
friendless : I have reconciled her to her 
fate, and I have reconciled her to her 
mother." Soon after, he seems to have 
formed the resolution of overlooking all dis- 
honouring circumstances, in her past his- 
tory, and making her really his own for Ufe. 



On the 7th of April, we find him writing to 
Miss Chalmers, evidently with allusion to 
this resolution : — " I have lately made some 
sacrifices, for which, were I viva voce with 
you to paint the situation and recount the 
circumstances, you would applaud me." 
And then, on the 28th, in a letter to Smith, 
we see the resolution has been virtually 
acted upon. "To let you a little into the 
secrets of my pericranium, there is, you 
must know, a certain clean-limbed, hand- 
some, bewitching young hussy of your ac- 
quaintance, to whom I have lately given a 
matrimonial title to my corpus. * * I 
intend to present Mrs. Burns with a printed 
shawl, an article of which I dare say you 
have variety : 'tis my first present to her 
since I irrevocably called her mine. * ♦ 
Mrs. Burns ('tis only her private designa- 
tion) presents her best compliments to you." 
He tells Ainslie, May 26, that tlie title is 
now avowed to the world — a sutficient legal 
proof of marriage in Scotland. Ultimately, 
on the 3rd of August, as we learn from the 
session books, the poet and Jean were 
openly married ; when Burns, being ia- 
formed that it was customary for the bride- 
groom, in such cases, to bestow something 
on the poor of the parish, gave a guinea for 
that purpose. The ceremony took place in 
Dow's tavern, unsanctioned by the lady's 
father, who never, to the day of the poet's 
death, would treat him as a friend; even 
Gavin Hamilton, from respect for the feel- 
ings of Armour, declined being present. It 
was not till the ensuing winter that Mrs. 
Burns joined her husband at Ellisland — ■ 
their only child Robert following her in the 
subsequent spring.] 

The situation in which Burns now found 
himself was calcidated to aw aken reflection. 
The different steps he had of late taken 
were in their nature highly important, and 
might be said to have, in some measure, 
fixed his destiny. He had become a husband 
and a father ; he had engaged in the manage- 
ment of a considerable farm, a difficult and la- 
borious undertaking; in his success the happi- 
ness of his family was involved. It was 
time, therefore, to abandcm the gaiety and 
dissipation of which he had been too much 
enamoured ; to ponder seriously on the past, 
and to form virtuous resolutions respecting 
the future. That such was actually the 
state of his mind, the foUowi.ig extract from 
his common-place book may bear witness : — 

"Ellisland, Sunday, \4t7i June, 1788. 
" This is now the third day that I have 
been in this country. ' Lord, what is man ! ' 



54 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



What a bustling little bundle of passions, 
appetites, ideas, and fancies 1 And what a 
capricious kind of existence he has here! * * 
There is indeed an elsewhere, where, as 
Thomson says, virtue sole survives. 

' Tell us, ye dead ; 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret, 
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be ; 

. A little time 

Will make us wise as you are, and as close.' 

" I am such a coward in life, so tired of 
the service, that I would almost at any time, 
with aiilton's Adam, 'gladly lay me in my 
mother's lap, and be at peace.' But a wife 
and children bind me to struggle with the 
stream, till some sudden squall shall overset 
the silly vessel, or, in the listless return of 
years, its own craziness reduce it to a wreck. 
Farewell now to those giddy follies, those 
varnished vices, which, though half sancti- 
fied by the bewitching levity of wit and 
humour, are at best but thriftless idling with 
the precious current of existence ; nay, often 
poisoning the whole, that, like the plains of 
Jericho, the water is nauijht and the (jround 
barren, and nothing short of asupernaturally 
gifted Elisha can ever after heal the evils. 

" Wedlock, the circumstance that buckles 
me hardest to care, if virtue and religion 
were to be any thing with me but names, 
was what in a few seasons I must have 
resolved on ; in my present situation it was 
absolutely necessary. Humanity, generosity, 
honest pride of character, justice to my own 
happiness for after-life, so far as it could de- 
pend (which it surely will a great deal) on 
internal peace ; all these joined their warmest 
sutfrages, their most powerful solicitations, 
with a rooted attachment, to urge the step 
I have taken. Nor have I any reason ou her 
part to repent it. I can fancy how, but have 
never seen where, T could have made a better 
choice. Come then, let me act up to my 
favourite motto, that glorious passage in 
Young — 

' On reason build resolve, 
That column of true majesty in man!' " 

Under the impulse of these reflections, 
Burns immediately engaged in rebuilding 
the dwelling-house on his farm, which, in 
the state he found it, was inadequate to the 
accommodation of his family. On this occa- 
sion he himself resumed at times the occupa- 
tion of a labourer, and found neither his 
strength nor his skill impaired. Pleased with 
surveying the grounds he was about to cul- 
tivate, and witli the rearing of a building that 
shoidd give shelter to his wife and children, 
and, as he fondly hoped, to his own grey 
haurs, sentiments of independence buoyed up 



his mind, pictures of domestic content and 
peace rose on his imagination ; and a few 
days passed away, as he himself informs iia, 
the most tranquil, if not the happiest, wliich 
he had ever experienced. (94.) 

It is to be lamented that at this critical 
period of his life, our poet was without the 
society of his wife and children. A great 
change had taken place in his situation ; his 
old habits were broken, and the new circum- 
stances in which he was placed were calcu- 
lated to give a new direction to his thoughts 
and conduct. But his application to the 
cares and labours of his farm was interrupted 
by several visits to his family in Ayrshire; 
and as the distance was too great for a single 
day's journey, he generally spent a night at 
an inn on the road. On such occasions he 
sometimes fell into company, and forgot the 
resolutions he had formed. In a little while, 
temptation assailed him nearer home. 

His fame naturally drew upon him the 
attention of his neighbours, and he soon 
formed a general acquaintance in the district 
in which he lived. The public voice had now 
pronounced on the subject of his talents ; 
the reception he had met with in Edinburgh 
had given him the currency which fashion 
bestows ; he had surmounted the prejudices 
arising from his humble birth, and he was 
received at the table of the gentlemen of 
Nithsdale with welcom.e, with kindness, and 
even with respect. Their social parties too 
often seduced him from his rustic labours 
and his rustic fare, overthrew the unsteady 
fabric of his resolutions, and inflamed those 
propensities which temperance might have 
weakened, and prudence ultimately sup- 
pressed. (95) It was not long, therefore, 
before Burns began to view his farm with 
dislike and despondence, if not with disgust. 
Unfortunately, he had for several years 
looked to an ottice in the Excise as a certain 
means of livelihood, should his other expecta- 
tions fail. As has already been mentioned, 
he had been recommended to the Board of 
Excise, and had received the instruction 
necessary for such a situation. He now 
applied to be employed ; and by the interest 
of Mr. Graham of Fintry, was appointed 
exciseman, or, as it is vulgarly called, ganger, 
of the district in which he lived. (96.) Mis 
farm was after this in a great measure 
abandoned to servants, while he betook him- 
self to the duties of his new appointment. 

He might, indeed, still be seen in the 
spring directing his plough, a labour in 
which he excelled ; or with a white sheet, 
containing his seed-corn, slung across his 
shoulders, striduig with measured stfips 



BURNS IN THE EXCISE. 



55 



along his turned-lip furrows, and scattering 
the grain in the earth. But his farm no 
longer occupied the principal part of his 
care or liis thoughts. (97) It was not at 
EUisIand that he was now in general to be 
found. Moimted on horseback, this high- 
minded poet was pursuing the defaulters of 
the revenue among the hills and vales of 
Nithsdale, his roving eye wandering over 
the charms of nature, and muttering Jiig 
wayward fancies as he moved along. 

"I had an adventure with lum in the 
year 1790," says Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, 
in a letter to the editor, "when passing 
through Dumfries-shire, on a tour to the 
south, with Dr. Stewart of Luss. Seeing 
him pass quickly, near Closeburu, I said to 
ray companion, ' that is Burns.' On coming 
to the inn, the hostler told us he woidd be 
back in a few hours to grant penults ; that 
wl)ere he met with anything seizable lie was 
no better than any other gauger ; in every- 
tliing else, that he was perfectly a gentle- 
man. After leaving a note to be delivered 
to him on his retvim, I proceeded to his 
house, being curious to see his Jean, &c. I 
was much pleased with his uxor Habina 
qiialis, and the poet's modest mansion, so 
unlike the habitation of ordinary rustics. 
In the evening he suddenly bounced in 
upon ns, and said, as he entered, ' I come, 
to use the words of Shakspcare, stewed in 
hmte.' In fact, he had ridden incredibly 
fast after receiving my note We fell into 
conversation directly, and soon got into tlie 
mare mac/num of poetry. lie told me that 
he had now gotten a story for a drama, 
which he was to call Hob Macquechan's 
Elshou, from a popular story of Robert 
Bruce being defeated on the water of Caern, 
when the heel of his boot ha\ing loosened 
in his flight, he applied to Robert JNIac- 
quechan to lit it ; who, to make sure, ran 
his awl nine inches up the king's heel. We 
were now going on at a great rate, when 

Mr. S popped in his head ; which put 

a stop to our (hscourse, which had become 
very interesting. Yet in a little while it 
was resumed ; and such was the force and 
versatility of the bard's genius, that he 

made the tears run down Mr. S 's 

cheeks, albeit unused to the poetic strain. 
• * * From that time we met no more, 
and I was grieved at the reports of iiim 
afterwards. Poor Burns ! we shall hardly 
ever see his like again. He was, in truth, a 
sort of comet in hterature, irregular in its 
motions, which did not do good propor- 
tioned to the blaze of hght it displayed." 

lu the summer of 1791, two English 



gentlemen, who had before met with him in 
Edinburgh, ])aid a visit to him at Ellisland. 
On calling at the house, they were informed 
that he had walked out on the banks of the 
river ; and dismounting from their horses, 
they proceeded in search of him. On a 
rock that projected into the stream, they 
saw a man employed in angling, of a 
singular appearance. lie had a cap made 
of a fox's skin on his head, a loose great- 
coat fixed round him by a belt, from which 
depended an enormous Highland broad- 
sword. It was Burns. He received thera 
with great cordiality, and asked them to 
share his humble dinner — an invitation 
which they accepted. On the table they 
found boiled beef, with vegetables, and 
barley-broth, after the manner of Scotland, 
of which they partook heartily. After 
dinner, the bard told them ingenuously 
that he had no wine to ofler them, notliing 
better than Highland whisky, a bottle of 
which Mrs. Burns set on the board. He 
produced at the same time his punch-bowl 
made of Inverary marble ; and, mixing the 
spirit with water and sugar, tilled their 
glasses, and invited them to drink. (98) The 
travellers were in haste, and, besides, the 
flavour of the whisky to their suthron 
palates was scarcely tolerable ; but the 
generous poet oflTered them his best, and 
his ardent hospitality they found it impos- 
sible to resist. Burns was in his hapj)iest 
mood, and the charms of his conversation 
were altogether fascinating. He ranged 
over a great variety of topics, illumiuaiuig 
whatever he touched. He related the tales 
of liis infancy and of his youth ; he recited 
some of the gayest and some of the teu- 
derest of his poems ; in the wildest of his 
strains of mirth, he threw in some touches 
of melancholy, and spread around him the 
electric emotions of his powerful mind. 
The Highland whisky improved in its 
flavour ; the marble bowl was again and 
again emptied and replenished; the guests 
of our poet forgot the flight of time, and 
the dictates of prudence : at the hour of 
midniglit they lost their way in returning 
to Dumfries, and coidd scarcely distinguish 
it when assisted by the morning's dawn. 

Besides his duties in the e>;cise, and his 
social pleasures, other circumstances inter- 
fered with the attention of Burns to his 
farm. He engaged in the formation of a 
society for purcliasing and circulating books 
among the farmers of his neiglibourhood, of 
which he undertook the management ; and 
he occupied liimself occasionally m com- 
posing songs for the musical work of Mr. 



66 



LIFE OF BdRNS. 



Jolmson, then in the course of publication. 
Tliese eiifcau^emeiits, useful and honourable 
in themselves, contributed, no doubt, to the 
abstraction of his thoughts from the busi- 
ness of agriculture. 

The consequences may be easily imagined. 
Notwithstanding the uniform prudence and 
good management of IMrs, Burns, and 
though his rent was moderate and reason- 
able, our poet found it convenient, if not 
necessary, to resign his farm to Mr. Miller, 
after having occupied it three years and a 
half. His office in the excise had originally 
produced about fifty pounds per annum. 
Having acquitted himself to the satisfaction 
of the board, he had been appointed to a 
new district, the emoluments of which rose 
to aljout seventy pounds per annum. 
Hoping to support himself aiui his fannly 
on this humble income till promotion should 
reach him, he disposed of his stock and of 
hi-5 crop on Ellisland by public auction, and 
removed to a small house which he had 
taken in Dumfries, about the end of the 
year 1791. 

Hitherto Biims, though addicted to excess 
in social parties, had abstained from the 
habitual use of strong liquors, and his con- 
stitution had not suffered any permanent 
injury from the irregularities of his conduct. 
In Dumfries, temptations to the sin that so 
easily beset him continually presented them- 
selves ; and his irregularities grew by 
degrees into habits. These temptations 
unhappily occurred during his engagements 
in the business of his office, as well as 
during his hours of relaxation ; and though 
he clearly foresaw the consequences of 
yielding to them, his appetites and sensa- 
tions, which could not prevent the dictates 
of his judgment, finally triumphed over the 
powers of his ^^-ill. Yet this victory was 
not obtained without many obstinate strug- 
gles, and at times temperance and virtue 
seemed to have obtained the mastery. Be- 
sides his engagements in the excise, and the 
society into which they led, many eirciun- 
stances contributed to the melancholy fate 
of Burns. His great celebrity matle him 
an object of interest and curiosity to 
strangers, and few persons of cultivated 
minds passed tlurough Dumfries without 
attempting to see our poet, and to enjoy 
the pleasure of liis conversation. As he 
coidd not receive them under his own 
humble roof, these interviews passed at the 
inns of the town, and often terminated in 
those excesses which Burns sometimes pro- 
voked, and was seldom able to resist. And 
amoQj^ the inhabitants of Dumfries and its 



vicinity, there were never wanting persons 
to share his social pleasures ; to lead or 
accompany him to tlie tavern ; to partake 
in the wildest sallies of his wit ; to witness 
the strength and the degradation of his 
genius. 

Still, however, he cultivated the society 
of persons of taste and of respectability. 
and in their company could impose on him- 
self the restraints of temperance and de- 
corum. Nor was his muse dormant. In 
the four years which he lived in Dumfries, 
he produced many of his beautiful lyrics, 
though it does not appear that he attempted 
any poem of considcraljle length. During 
this time he made several excursions into 
the neighbouring country, of one of which, 
through Galloway, an account is preserved 
in a letter of Mr. Syine, written soon after ; 
which, as it gives an animated picture of 
him by a correct and masterly hand, we 
shall present to the reader. 

" I got Burns a grey Highland shelty to 
ride on." We dined the first day, 27th 
July, 1793, at Glendenwyncs of Parton ! a 
beautiful situation on the banks of the Dee. 
In the evening we walked out, and ascended 
a gentle eminence, from which we had as 
fine a view of Alpine scenery as can well be 
imagined. A delightful soft evening showed 
all Its wilder as weU as its grander graces. 
Immediately opposite, and within a mile of 
us, we saw Airds, a charming romantic 
place, where dwelt Low, the author of Mary 
iveep no more for me. (99) TlvT was classical 
ground for Burns. He viewed ' the highest 
hill which rises o'er the source of Dee ; ' 
and would have staid till 'the passing spirit' 
had appeared, had we not resolved to reach 
Kennure that night, ^\'e arrived as Mr. 
and Airs. Gordon (100) were sittuig down 
to supper. 

" Here is a genuine baron's seat. The 
castle, an old building, stands on a large 
natural moat. In front, the river Ken 
winds for several miles through the most 
fertile and beautiful hohii (101), till it ex- 
])ands into a lake twelve miles long, the 
banks of which, on the south, present a fine 
and soft landscape of green knolls, natural 
wood, and here and there a grey rock. On 
the north, the aspect is great, wild, and, I 
may say, tremendous. In short, I can 
scarcely conceive a scene more terribly ro- 
mantic than the castle of Kenmure. Burns 
thinks so highly of it, that he meditates a 
description of it in poetry. Indeed, I be- 
lieve he has begun the work. We spent 
three days with Mr. Gordon, \i-liose polished 
hospitality is of an original and endearing 



ST. MAKT'S ISLE. 



67 



kind. Jlrs. Gordon's lap-dojj, Echo, was 
dead. Slie would have an epitaph for him. 
Several had been made. Burns waa asked 
for one. This was setting' Hercules to his 
distaff. He disliked the subject ; but, to 
please the lady, he would try. Here is 
what he produced : — 

' In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy loss deplore ! 
Now half extinct your powers of song. 
Sweet Echo is no more. 

Te jan-ing- screeching things around, 
Seream your discordant joys ! 

Kow half your din of tuneless song 
With Echo silent lies.' 

"We left Kenmure, and went to Gate- 
house. I took hira the moor-road, where 
savag'e and desolate regions extended wide 
around. The sky was sj-mpathetic with the 
wretchedness of the soil ; it became lower- 
ing and dark. The hollow winds sighed, the 
lightnings gleamed, the thunder rolled. The 
poet enjoyed the awful scene ; he spoke not 
a word, but seemed rapt in meditation. In 
a little while the rain began to fall ; it poured 
in floods upon us. For three hours did the 
wild elements rumble their belly full upon 
our defenceless heads. Ok ! oh ! 'twas foul. 
We got utterly wet ; and, to revenge our- 
selves. Burns insisted at Gatehouse on our 
getting utterly drunk. 

'■ Fi-om Gatehouse, we went next day to 
Kirkcudbright, through a fine country. But 
here I must tell you that Burns had got a 
pair of jemmy boots for the journey, which 
had been thoroughly wet, and which had 
been dried in such manner that it was not 
possible to get them on again. The brawny 
poet tried force, and tore them to shreds. 
A whitiling vexation of this sort is more 
trying to the temper than a serious calamity. 
We were going to Saint Mary's Isle, the 
seat of the Earl of Selkirk, and the forlorn 
Burns was discomfited at the thought of his 
ruined boots. A sick stomach, and a head- 
ache, lent their aid, and the man of verse 
was quite accable. I attempted to reason 
with him. i\[ercy on us, how he did fume 
and rage ! Nothing coidd reinstate him in 
temper. I tried various expedients, and at 
last hit on one that succeeded. I showed 
him the house of * * * * , across the 
bay of Wigton. Against * * * » ^ with 
whom he was offended, he expectorated his 
spleeo, and regained a most agreeable tem- 
per. He was in a most epigrammatic 
humour indeed! He afterwards fell on 
humbler game. There is one * « » * » 
whom he does not love. He had a passing 
blow at him. 



' A\Tien ■ 



— , deceased to the devil went 

down, [ovm crown ; 

'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's 

Thy fool's head, quoth Satan, that crown shall 

wear never, [clever.' 

I grant thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so 

"AVell, I am to bring you to Kirkcudbright 
along with our poet, without boots. I 
carried the torn ruins across my saddle in 
spite of his ftilminations, and in contempt 
of appearances ; and what is more, Lord 
Selkirk (102) carried them in his coach to 
Dumfries. He insisted they were worth 
mending. 

"We reached Kirkcudbright about one 
o'clock. I had promised that we should 
dine with one of the first men in our 
country, J. Dalzell. But Burns was in a 
wild and obstreperous humour, and swore 
he would not dine where he should be under 
the smallest restraint. We prevailed, there- 
fore, on Jlr. Dalzell to dine with us in the 
inn, and had a very agreeable party. In the 
evening we set out for St. Mary's Isle. 
Robert had not absolutely regained the 
milkiness of good temper, and it occurred 
once or t%vice to him, as he rode along, that 
St. Mary't: Isle was the seat of a Lord ; yet 
that Lord was not an aristocrat, at least in 
his sense of the word. V>'e arrived about 
eight o'clock, as the fttmily were at tea and 
cotfee. St. Clary's Isle is one of the most 
delightful places that can, in my opinion 
be formed by the assemblage of every soft, 
but not tame object, which constitutes 
natural and cultivated beauty. But not to 
dwell on its external graces, let me tell you 
that we found all the ladies of the family 
(all beautiful) at home, and some strangers ; 
and, among others, who but Urbaiii I The 
Italian sang us many Scottish songs, accom- 
panied with instrumental music. The two 
yomig ladies of Selkirk sang also. We had 
the song of Lord Gregory, which I asked 
for, to have an opportunity of calling on 
Bums to recite his ballad to that tune. He 
did recite it ; and such was the etfect, that 
a dead silence ensued. It was such a silence 
as a mind of feeling naturally preserves 
when it is touched with that enthusiasm 
which banishes every other thottght but the 
contemplation and indulgence of the sym- 
pathy produced. Burns's Lord Gregory is, 
in my opinion, a most beautiful and afl'ect- 
ing ballad. The fastidious critic may per- 
haps say, some of the sentiments and 
imagery are of too elevated a kind for such 
a style of composition ; for instance, ' Thou 
bolt of Heaven that passest by ; ' and, ' Ye 
mustering thunder,' &c. ; but this is a c»ld 



68 



LIFE OF BUENS. 



blooded objection, which will be said rather 
than felt. 

" We enjoyed a most happy evening at 
Lord Selkirk's. We had, in every sense of 
the word, a feast, in which onr minds and 
our senses were equally gratified. The poet 
was delighted with his company, and ac- 
quitted himself to admiration. The lion 
that had raged so violently in the morning, 
was now as mild and gentle as a lamb. 
Next day we returned to Dumfries, and so 
ends our peregrination. I told you that, in 
the midst of the storm, on the wilds of 
Kerimure, Burns was wrapt in meditation, 
^^'hat do you think he was about ? He was 
charging the English army, along with 
Bruce, at Bannockburu. He was engaged 
in the same manner on our ride home 
from S4. Mary's Isle, and I did not disturb 
him. Next day he produced me the toilow- 
ing address of Bruce to his troops, and 
gave me a copy for Dalzell : — 

« Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,' &c. (103)" 

Burns had entertained hopes of promo- 
tion in the Excise ; but circumstances oc- 
curred which retarded their fulfilment, and 
which, in his own mind, destroyed all ex- 
pectation of their being ever fulfilled. The 
extraordinary events which ushered in the 
revolution of France, interested the feelings, 
and excited the hopes of men in every 
corner of Europe. Prejudice and tyranny 
seemed about to disappear from among 
men, and the day-star of reason to rise 
upon a benighted world. In the dawn of 
this beautiful morning, the genius of French 
freedom appeared on our southern horizon 
with the countenance of an angel, but 
speedily assumed the features of a demon, 
and vanished in a shower of blood. 

Though previously a Jacobite and a 
cavalier. Burns had shared in the original 
hopes entertained of this astonishing 
revolution by ardent and benevolent minds. 
The novelty and the hazard of the attempt 
meditated by the First, or Constituent 
Assembly, served rather, it is probable, to 
recommend it to his daring temper ; and the 
unfettered scope proposed to be given to 
every kind of talent, was doubtless gratify- 
ing to the feehngs of conscious but in- 
dignant genius. Burns foresaw not the 
mighty ruin that was to be the im- 
mediate consequence of an enterprise, which, 
on its commencement, promised so much 
happiness to the human race. And even 
after the career of guilt and of blood com- 
menced, he could not immediately, it may 
be presumed, withdraw his partial gaze 



from a people who had so lately breathed 
the sentiments of universal peace and 
benignity, or obliterate in his bosom the 
pictures of hope and of happiness to which 
those sentiments had given birth. Under 
these impressions, he did not always con- 
duct himself with the circumspection and 
prudence which his dependent situation 
seemed to demand. He engaged, indeed, 
in no popular associations, so common at 
the time of which we speak ; but in com- 
pany he did not conceal his opinions of 
public measures, or of the reforms required 
in the practice of our government ; and 
sometimes, in his social and unguarded 
moments, he uttered them with a wild and 
unjustifiable vehemence. Information of 
this was given to the Board of Excise, with 
the exaggerations so general in such cases. 
A superior officer in that department was 
authorized to inquire into his conduct. 
Burns defended himself iji a letter ad- 
dressed to one of the board [Mr. Graham 
of Fintry], WTitten with great independence 
of spirit, and with more than his accustomed 
eloquence. The officer appointed to inquire 
into his conduct gave a favourable re- 
port. (104) His steady friend, Mr. Graham 
of Fintry, interposed his good offices in his 
behalf; and the imprudent ganger was 
suffered to retain his situation, but given to 
understand that his promotion was deferred, 
and must depend on his future behaviour. 

This circumstance made a deep impres- 
sion on the mind of Burns. Fame ex- 
aggerated his misconduct, and represented 
him as actually dismissed from his office ; 
and this report induced a gentleman of 
much respectability [Mr. Erskine of Marr] 
to propose a subscription in his favoiu:. 
The offer was refused by our poet in a 
letter of great elevation of sentiment, in 
which he gives an account of the whole of 
this transaction, and defends himself from 
the imputation of disloyal sentiments on 
the one hand, and on the other, from the 
charge of having made submissions for the 
sake of his office unworthy of his character. 

" The partiality of my countrymen," he 
observes, " has brought me forward as a 
man of genius, and has given me a character 
to support. In the poet I have avowed 
manly and independent sentiments, which I 
hope have been found in the man. Reasons 
of no less weight than the support of a wife 
and children, have pointed out my present 
occupation as the only eligible line of life 
within my reach. Still my honest fame is 
my dearest concern, and a thousand times 
have I trembled at the idea of the degrading 



BUENS'S POLITICS. 



59 



epithets that malice or misrepresentation 
may affix to my name. Often in blasting 
anticipation have I Hstened to some future 
hackney scribbler, with tlie heavy mahce of 
savage stupidity, exultingly asserting that 
Burns, notwithstanding the fanfaronade of 
independence to be found in his works, and 
after having been lield up to pubhc view, 
and to public estimation, as a man of some 
genius, yet, quite destitute of resources 
within himself to support his borrowed 
dignity, dwindled into a paltry exciseman, 
and slunk out the rest of his insignificant 
existence in the meanest of pursuits, and 
among the lowest of mankind. 

" In your illustrious hands, Sir, permit me 
to lodge my strong disavowal and defiance 
of such slanderous fidsehoods. Burns was 
a poor man from his birth, and an exciseman 
by necessity ; but — I will say it ! the 
sterling of his lionest worth poverty could 
not debase, and his independent British 
spirit oppression might bend, but could not 
subdue." 

It was one of the last acts of his life to 
copy this letter into his book of manuscripts, 
accompanied by some additional remarks on 
the same subject. It is not surprising, that 
at a season of universal alarm for the 
safety of the constitution, the indiscreet 
expressions of a man so powerful as Burns 
should have attracted notice. The times 
certainly required extraordinary vigilance in 
those entrusted with the administration of 
the government, and to ensure the safety of 
the constitution was doubtless their first 
duty. Yet generous minds will lament 
that their measures of precaution should 
have robbed the imagination of our poet 
of the last prop on which his hopes of 
independence rested; and by embittering 
his peace, have aggravated those excesses 
which were soon to conduct liim to an 
untimely grave. (105) 

Though the vehemence of Burns's temper, 
increased as it often was by stimulating 
liquors, might lead him into many improper 
and unguarded expressions, there seems no 
reason to doubt of his attachment to our 
mixed form of government. In his common- 
place book, where he could have no tempta- 
tion to disguise, are the following senti- 



the pressing nature of public afTairs callcl, 
in 1795, for a general arming of the people. 
Burns appeared in the ranks of the Dumfries 
volunteers, and employed liis poetical talents 
in stimulating their patriotism (106); and 
at this season of alarm, he brought forward 
the following hymn, worthy of the Grecian . 
Muse, when Greece was most conspicuous 
for genius and valoiur : — 
Scene— A. field of battle— Time of the day, 

evening— The wounded and dying of the 

victorious army are supposed to join in the 

foUowinsr song : — 
Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth and 
ye skies, 

Now gay with the bright sotting sun 1 
Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear 
tender ties, 

Our race of existence is run ! 
Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy 
foe, 

Go, frighten the coward and slave ; [know, 
Go, tcacli them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but 

No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 
Thou strik'st the dull peasant, he sinks in the 
dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strik'st the young hero— a glorious 
mark ! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 
In the field of proud honour — our swords in 
our hands, 

Our king and our country to save — [sands. 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing 

Oh ! who would not rest with the 
brave! (107) 

Tliough by nature of an athletic form, 
Burns had in his constitution the pecu- 
liarities and the dehcacies that belong to 
the temperament of genius. He was liable, 
from a very early period of life, to that 
interruption in the process of digestion, 
which arises from deep and anxious thought, 
and which is sometimes the effect, and 
sometimes the cause, of depression of 
spirits. Connected with this disorder of the 
stomach, there was a disposition to head- 
ache, affecting more especially the temples 
and eye-balls, and frequently accompanied 
by violent and irregidar movements of the 
heart. Endowed by nature with great 
sensibility of nerves. Bums was, in his cor- 
poreal, as well as in his mental system, 
liable to inordinate impressions — to fever 
of body as well as of mind. This pre- 



ments: — "Whatever might be my sentiments i disposition to disease, which strict tempe 
of republics, ancient or modern, as to • i- . . ■ i 

Britain, I ever abjured the idea. A con- 
stitution, which, in its original principles, 
experience has proved to be every way fitted 
for our happiness, it woidd be insanity to 
abandon for an untried visionary theory." 
In conformity to these sentiments, when 



ranee in diet, regular exercise, and sound 
sleep, might have subdued, habits of a very 
different nature strengthened and niflamed. 
Perpetually stimulated by alcohol in one or 
other of its various forms, the inordinate 
actions of the circulating system became at 
length habitual ; the process of nutrition 



60 



LIFE OF BITRXS. 



V as (tnable to supply the waste, and the 
powers of life began to fail. Upwards of a 
year before Ids death, there was an evident 
decline in our poet's personal appearance, 
and though his appetite continued unim- 
paired, he was himself sensible that his 
constitution was sinking. In his moments 
of thought he reflected with the deepest 
regret on his fatal progress, clearly foresee- 
ing the goal towards which he was hastening, 
without the strength of mind necessary to 
stop, or even to slacken his course. His 
temper now became more irritable and 
gloomy ; he fled from himself into society, 
often of the lowest kind. And in such 
company, that part of the convivial scene in 
which wine increases sensibility and excites 
benevolence, was hurried over, to reach the 
succeeding part, over which uncontrolled 
passion generally presided. He who suffers 
the pollution of inebriation, how shall he 
escape other pollution ? But let us refrain 
from the mention of errors over which 
delicacy and humanity draw the veil. 

[A similar view of the latter days of 
Burns IS taken by his biographers, Heron, 
Irving, Walker, and, in general, by all who 
wrote soon after his death. Mr. Lockhart, 
supported by attestations from Gilbert 
Burns, James Gray, then rector of the 
grammar-school of Dumfries, and Mr. Find- 
later, the poet's superior otlicer, gives a 
more favourable representation. The letter 
of Gray presents so interesting a picture of 
Burns in all respects, that we cannot resist 
the temptation to connect it with the text 
of Currie : — 

" I love Dr. Currie, but I love the memory 
of Burns more, and no consideration shall 
deter me from a bold declaration of the 
truth. The poet of the Cotter's Saturday 
Night, who felt all the charms of the 
humble piety and virtue which he sang, is 
charged (in Dr. Currie's narrative) with 
vices which would reduce him to a level 
with the most degraded of his species. As 
I knew him during that period of his life 
emphatically called his e\il days, / am 
enabled to speak from my oioii observation. 
It is not my intention to extenuate his 
errors, because they were combined with 
genius ; on that account, they were only 
the more dangerous, because the more 
seductive, and deserve the more severe re- 
prehension ; but I shall likewise claim that 
nothing may be said in malice even against 
him It came under my own view pro- 
fessionally, that he superintended the educa- 
tion nf his children with a degree of care 
that / have never seen surpassed by any 



parent in any rank of life whatever. In 
the bosom of his family he spent many a 
delightful hour in directing the studies of 
his eldest son, a boy of uncommon talents. 
I have frequently found him explaining to 
this youth, then not more than nine years 
of age, the English poets, from Shakspeare 
to Gray, or storing his mind with examples 
of heroic virtue, as they live in the pages of 
our most celebrated English historians. I 
would ask any person of common candour, 
if employments like these are consistent 
with habitual drunkenness ? It is not denied 
that he sometimes mingled with society 
unworthy of him. He w-as of a social and 
convivial nature. He was courted by all 
classes of men for the fascinating powers of 
his conversation, but over his social scene 
uncontrolled passion never presided. Over 
the social bowl, his wit flashed for hours 
together, penetrating whatever it stmck, 
like the fire from heaven ; but even in the 
hour of thoughtless gaiety and merriment, 
I never knew it tainted by indecency. It 
was playful or caustic by turns, following aa 
allusion through all its windings ; astonish- 
ing by its rapidity, or amusing by its wild 
originaHty, and grotesque, yet natural com- 
binations, but never, within my observation, 
disgusting by its grossness. In his moriung 
hours, I never saw hini like one suffering 
from the effects of last night's intemperance. 
He appeared then clear and unclouded. He 
was the eloquent advocate of humanity, 
justice, and political fi-eedom. From his 
paintings, virtue appeared more lovely, and 
piety assumed a more celestial mien. While 
his keen eye was pregnant with fancy and 
feeling, and his voice attuned to the very 
passion which he wished to communicate, it 
would hardly have been possible to conceive 
any being more interesting and delightful. 
I may likewise add, that, to the very end of 
his life, reading was his favourite amuse- 
ment. I have never known any man so 
intimately acquainted with the elegant 
English authors. He seemed to have the 
poets by heart. Tlie prose authors he could 
quote either in their owai words, or clothe 
their ideas in language more beautiful than 
their own. Nor was there ever any decay 
in any of the powers of his mind. To the 
last day of his life, his judgment, his 
memory, his imagination, were fresh and 
vigorous as when he composed the Cotter's 
Saturday Night. The truth is, that Burns 
was seldom intoxicated. The drunkard soou 
becomes besotted, and is shunned even by 
the comdvial. Had he been so, he could 
not long have contmued the idol of every 



HABITS OF INTOXICATIO^. 



61 



party. It will be freely confessed, that tlie 
hour of enjoyment was often prolonged 
beyond the limit marked by prudence ; but 
what man will venture to attirm, that in 
situations where he was conscious of giving 
80 much pleasure, he could at all times ha\ e 
Ustened to her voice ? 

" The men with whom he generally asso- 
ciated were not of the lowest order, He 
numbered among his intimate friends many 
of the most respectable inhabitants of Dum- 
fries and the vicinity. Several of those were 
attached to him by ties that th e hand of the 
calumny, busy as it was, could never snap 
asunder. They admired the poet for his 
genius, and loved the man for the candour, 
generosity, and kindness of his nature. His 
early friends clung to him through good and 
bad report, with a zeal and lidelity that 
prove their disbelief of the malicious stories 
circulated to his disad\ autage. Among them 
were some of the most distinguished charac- 
ters in this country, and not a few females 
emment for delicacy, taste, and genius. They 
were proud of his friendship, and cherished 
him to the last moment of his existence. 
He was endeared to them even by his mis- 
fortunes, and they still retain for his memory 
that affectionate veneration which virtue 
alone inspires." 

In the midst of all his wanderings. Bums 
met nothing in his domestic circle but gen- 
tleness and forgiveness, except in the gnaw- 
ings of his own remorse. He acknowledged 
his transgressions to the wife of his bosom, 
promised amendment, and again and again 
received pardon for his offences. But as 
the strength of his body decayed, his resolu- 
tion became feebler, and habit acquired pre- 
dominating strength. 

From October 1793 to the January follow- 
ing, an accidental complaint confined him to 
the house. A few days after he began to go 
abroad, he dined at a tavern, and returned 
home about three o'clock in a very cold 
moniing, benumbed and intoxicated. (108) 
This was fdllowed by an attack of rheuma- 
tism, which confined him about a week. His 
appetite now began to fail ; his hand shook, 
and his voice faltered on any exertion or 
emotion. His pulse became weaker and 
more rapid, and pain in the larger joints, and 
in the hands and feet, deprived him of the 
enjoyment of refreshing sleep. Too much 
dejected in his spirits, aiul too well aware of 
Lis real situation to entertain hopes of re- 
COTery, he was ever musing on the approach- 
ing desolation of his family, and his spirits 
sank into a uniform gloom. 

It was hoped by some of his friendi, that 



if he could live through the months of 
spring, the succeeding season might restore 
him. But they were disappointed. I'he 
genial beams of the sun infused no vigour 
uito his languid frame ; the summer wind 
blew upon him, but produced no refrcslimeni. 
About the latter end of June he was advised 
to go into the country ; and impatient of 
medical advice, as well as of every species of 
control, he determined for himself to try the 
effects of batliing in the sea. For this pur- 
pose he took up his residence at Brow, in 
Annandale, about ten miles east of Dum- 
fries, on the shore of the Sohvay Firth. 

It happened that at that time a lady \vith 
whom he had been comiectcd in friendsiiip 
by the sympathies of kindred genius, was 
residing in the immediate neighbourhood. 
(109) Being informed of his arrival, she in- 
vited him to dinner, and sent her carriage 
for him to the cottage where he lodged, as 
he was unable to walk. "I was struck," 
says this lady (in a confidential letter to a 
friend written soon after), " with his appear- 
ance on entering the room. The stamp of 
death was imprinted on his features. He 
seemed already touching the brink of eternity. 
His first salutation was, ' Well, madam, have 
you any commands for the other worldV ' I 
replied, that it seemed a doubtful case which 
of us should be there soonest, and that I 
hoped he would yet live to wTite my epitapli. 
(I was then in a bad state of health.) He 
looked in my face with an air of great kind- 
ness, and expressed his concern at seeing me 
look so ill, with his accustomed sensibility. 
At table he ate little or nothing, and he com- 
plained of having entirely lost the tone of 
his stomach. We had a long and serious 
conversation about his present situation, and 
the approaching termination of all his earthly 
prospects. He spoke of his death without 
any of the ostentation of phdosophy, but 
with firmness as well as feehng, as an event 
likely to happen very soon, and which gave 
him concern chiefly from leaving his four 
children so young and unprotected, and his 
wife in so interesting a situation — in hourly 
expectation of lying in of a fifth. He men- 
tioned, with seeming pride and satisfaction, 
the promising genius of his eldest son, and 
the flattering marks of approbation he had 
received from his teachers, and dwelt par- 
ticularly on his hopes of that boy's future 
conduct and merit. His anxiety for his 
family seemed to hang heavy upon him, and 
the more perhaps from the reflection that he 
had not done them all the justice he was so 
w ell qualified to do. Passing from this sub- 
ject, he showed great concern about the care 



62 



LIFE OP BURNS. 



of his literary fame, and particularly the 
publication of his posthumous works. He 
said he was well aware that his death would 
occasion some noise, and that every scrap of 
his writing would be revived against him to 
the injury of his future reputation ; that 
letters and verses written with unguarded 
and improper freedom, and which he earnestly 
wished to have buried in obhvion, would be 
handed about by idle vanity or malevolence, 
when no dread of his resentment woidd re- 
strain them, or prevent the censures of shrill- 
tongued maUce, or the insidious sarcasms of 
envy, from pouring forth all their venom to 
blast his fame. 

" He lamented that he had written many 
epigrams on persons against whom he enter- 
tained no enmity, and whose characters he 
should be sorry to wound ; and many in- 
dirt'erent poetical pieces, which he feared 
would now, with all their imperfections on 
their head, be tlinist upon the world. On 
this accovmt he deeply regretted having de- 
ferred to put his papers in a state of arrange- 
ment, as he was now quite incapable of the 
exertion." The lady goes on to mention 
many other topics of a private nature on 
which he spoke. "The conversation," she 
adds, " was kept up with great evenness and 
animation on his side. I had seldom seen 
his mind greater or more collected. There 
was frequently a considerable degree of viva- 
city in his salhes, and they would probably 
have had a greater share, had not the con- 
cern and dejection I could not disguise 
damped the spnit of pleasantry he seemed 
not unwilling to indulge. 

" We parted about sunset on the evening 
of that day (the 5th of July 1796) : the next 
day I saw him again, and we parted to meet 
no more 1 " 

At first Burns imagined bathing in the 
Bea had been of benefit to him : the pains in 
his limbs were relieved ; but this was imme- 
diately followed by a new attack of fever. 
When brought back to liis own house in 
Dumfries, on the 18th of July, he was no 
longer able to stand upright. At this time 
a tremor pervaded his frame : his tongue was 
parched, and his mind sank into delirium, 
when not roused by conversation. On the 
second and third day the fever increased, and 
Lis strength diminished. On the fourth, the 
sufferings of this great, but ill-fated genius, 
were terminated; and a life was closed in 
which virtue and passionhad been in perpetual 
variance. (110) 

The death of Burns made a strong and 
general impression on all who had interested 
themselves in his character, and especially 



on the inhabitants of the town and county iu 
which he had spent the latter years of his 
life. Flagrant as his follies and errors had 
been, they had not deprived him of the re- 
spect and regard entertained for the extra- 
ordinary powers of his genius, and the 
generous qualities of his heart. The Gentle- 
men-Volunteers of Dumfries determined to 
bury their illustrious associate with military 
honours, and every preparation was made to 
render this last service solemn and impressive. 
Tlie Fencible Infantry of Angus-shire, and 
the regiment of cavalry of the Cinque Ports, 
at that time quartered in Dumfries, offered 
their assistance on this occasion ; the prin- 
cipal inhabitants of the town and neighbour- 
hood determined to walk in the funeral 
procession; and a vast concourse of persons 
assembled, some of them from a considerable 
distance, to witness the obsequies of the 
Scottish Bard. On the evening of the 25th 
of July, the remains of Burns were removed 
from his house to the Town Hall, and the 
funeral took place on the succeeding day. A 
party of the volunteers, selected to perform 
the mihtary duty in the churchyard, stationed 
themselves in the front of the procession, with 
their arms reversed ; the main body of the 
corps surrounded and supported the coffin, 
on which were placed the hat and sword of 
their friend and fellow-soldier ; the numerous 
body of attendants ranged themselves in the 
rear; while the Fencible regiments of infantry 
and cavalry lined the streets from the Town 
Hall to the burial ground in the southern 
churchyard, a distance of more than half a 
mile. The whole procession moved forward 
to that sublime and affecting strain of music, 
the Dead March in Saul ; and three voUies 
tired over his grave marked the return of 
Burns to his parent earth! The spectacle 
was in a high degree grand and solemn, and 
accorded with the general sentiments of 
sympathy and sorrow which the occasion had 
called forth. 

It was an affecting circumstance, that, on 
the morning of the day of her husband's 
funeral, Mrs. Burns was undergoing the 
pains of labour ; and that during the solemn 
service we have just been describing, the 
posthumous son of our poet was born. 
This mfant boy, who received the name of 
Alaxwell, was not destined to a long life. 
He has already become an inhabitant of the 
same grave with his celebrated father. The 
four other children of our poet, all sons (the 
eldest at that time about ten years of age), 
yet survive, and give every promise of pru- 
dence and virtue that can be expected from 
their tender years. They remain under the 



ILLNESS AND DEATH OF BURNS. 



63 



care of their affectionate mother in Dura- 
fries, and are eujoyiii? the means of educa- 
tion which the excellent schools of that 
town afford ; the teachers of which, in 
ilieir conduct to the children of Burns, do 
themselves great honour. On this occasion 
the nauie of ]\Ir. Whyte deserves to be par- 
ticularly mentioned, himself a poet as well 
as a man of science. (Ill) 

Burns died in great poverty ; but the in- 
dependence of his spirit, and the exemplary 
prudence of his wife, had preserved him 
from debt. (112) He had received from his 
piems a clear profit of about nine hundred 
pounds. Of this sum, the part expended on 
his library (which was far from extensive) 
and in the humble furniture of his house, 
remained ; and obligations were found for 
tivo hundred pounds advanced by him to the 
a-isistance of those to whom he was united 
by tlie ties of blood, and still more by those 
of esteem and affection. When it is con- 
sidered, that his expenses in Edinburgh, and 
on his various journies, could not be incon- 
siderable ; that his agricultural undertaking 
was unsuccessful ; that his income from the 
Excise was for some time as low as fifty, 
and never rose to above seventy pounds 
a-year ; that his family was large, and his 
spirit liberal — no one will be surprised that 
his circumstances were so poor, or that, as 
his health decayed, his proud and feeling 
heart sank under the secret consciousness of 
indigence, and the apprehensions of absolute 
want. Yet poverty never bent the spirit of 
Burns to any pecuniary meanness. Neither 
chicanery nor sordidness ever appeared in 
his conduct. He carried his disregard of 
money to a blameable excess. Even in the 
midst of distress he bore himself loftily to 
the world, and received with a jealous re- 
luctance every offer of friendly assistance. 
His printed poems had procured him great 
celebrity and a just and fair recompense for 
the latter offsprings of his pen might have 
produced him considerable emolument. In 
the year 1795, the editor of a London news- 
paper, high in its character for literature and 
independence of sentiment, made a proposal 
to him that lie should furnish them, once 
a- week, with an article for their poetical 
department, and receive from them a recom- 
pense of fifty-two guineas per annum ; an 
offer which the pride of genius disdained to 
iccept. Yet he had for several years fur- 
nished, and was at that time furnishing, the 
Museum of Johnson with his beautifid 
lyrics, without fee or rew-ard, and was obsti- 
nately refusing all recompense for his assist- 
ance to the greater work of Mr. Thomson, 



which the justice and generosity of that 
gentleman was pressing upon him. 

'i'he sense of his poverty, and of the ap- 
proaching distress of his infant family, 
pressed heavily on Burns as he lay on the 
bed of death. Yet he alluded to his indi- 
gence, at times, with something approaching 
to his wonted gaiety. " What business," 
said he to Dr. jNIaxwell, who attended him 
with the utmost zeal, " has a physician to 
waste his time on me ? I am a poor pigeon 
not worth plucking. Alas ! 1 have not 
feathers enough upon me to carry me to my 
grave." And« when his reason was lost iu 
delirium, his ideas ran in the same melan- 
choly train ; the horrors of a jail were con- 
tinually present to his troubled imagination, 
and produced the most affecting exclama- 
tions. 

As for some months previous to his death 
he had been incapable of the duties of his 
office. Burns dreaded that his salary should 
be reduced one half, as is usual in such 
cases. His full emoluments were, however, 
continued to him by the kindness of Mr. 
Stobie (113), a young expectant iu the Ex- 
cise, who performed the duties of his office 
without fee or reward ; and Jlr. Graham of 
Fintry, hearing of his illness, though un- 
acquainted with its dangerous nature, made 
an offer of his assistance towards procuring 
him the means of preserving his health. 
"Whatever might be the faults of Burns, in- 
gratitude was not of the number. Amongst 
his manuscripts, various proofs are found of 
the sense he entertained of Mr. Graham's 
friendship, which delicacy towards that gen- 
tleman has induced us to suppress ; and on 
this last occasion there is no doubt that his 
heart overflowed towards him, though he 
had no longer the power of expressing his 
feelings. (114) 

On the death of Burns, the mhabitunts 
of Dumfries and its neighbourhood opened 
a subscription for the support of his wife 
and family ; and Mr. Miller, Mr. JI'Miirdo, 
Dr. Maxwell, Mr. Syne, and Mr. Cunning, 
ham, gentlemen of the first respectability, 
became trustees for the application of the 
money to its proper objects. The subscrip. 
tion was extended to other parts of Scotland, 
and of England also, particularly London 
and Liverpool. By this means a sum was 
raised amounting to seven hundred pounds; 
and thus the widow and children were res- 
cued from immediate distress, and the most 
melancholy of the forebodings of Burns 
happily disappointed. It is true, this sum, 
though equal to their present support, is in- 
suflicient to secure them from future penury. 



61 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



'ITieir hope in regard to futurity depends on 
the favouraljle reception of these volumes 
from the pubhc at large, in the promoting of 
which the candour and humanity of the 
reader may induce him to lend his assist- 
ance. 

Burns, as has already been mentioned, 
was nearly five feet ten inches in height, and 
of a form that indicated agility as well as 
Strength. His well-raised forehead, shaded 
with black curling hair, indicated extensile 
c ipacity. His eyes were large, dark, fall of 
ardour and intelligence. His face was well 
formed ; and his countenance uncommonly 
interesting and expressive. His mode of 
dressing, which was often slovenly, and a 
certam fulness and bend in his shoulders, 
characteristic of his original profession, dis- 
guised in some degree the natural symmetry 
and elegance of his form. The external 
appearance of Burns was most strikingly 
indicative of the character of his mind. 
On a first view, his physiognomy had a cer- 
tain air of coarseness, mingled, however, 
with an expression of deep penetration, and 
of calm thoughtfulness, approaching to me- 
lancholy. There appeared in his first manner 
and address, perfect ease and self-possession, 
but a stern and almost supercilious elevation, 
not, indeed, incompatible with openness and 
affability, which, however, bespoke a mind 
conscious of superior talents. Strangers 
that supposed themselves approaching an 
Ayrshire peasant who coiUd make rhymes, 
and to whom their notice was an honour, 
found themselves speedily overawed by the 
presence of a man who bore himself with 
dignity, and who possessed a singidar power 
of correcting forwardness and of repelling 
intrusion. (115) But though jealous of the 
respect due to himself. Burns never enforced 
it where he saw it was willingly paid ; and, 
though inaccessible to the approaches of 
pride, he was open to every advance of 
kindness and of benevolence. His dark and 
haughty countenance easily relaxed into a 
look of good will, of pity, or of tenderness; 
and, as the various emotions succeeded each 
other in his mind, assumed with equal ease 
the expression of the broadest humour, of 
the most extravagant mirth, rf the deepest 
melancholy, or of the most suulime emotion. 
The tones of his voice happily corresponded 
with the expression of his features, and with 
the feelings of his mind. When to these 
endowments are added a rapid and distinct 
apprehension, a most powerful understand- 
ing, and a happy command of language— of 
Strength as well as brilliancy of expression — 

e shall be able to account for the extraor- 



dinary attractions of his conversation — for 
the sorcery which in his social parties he 
seemed to exert on all around him. In the 
company of women this sorcery was more 
especially apparent. Their presence charmed 
the fiend of melancholy in his bosom, and 
awoke his happiest feelings ; it excited the 
powers of his fancy, as well as the tenderness 
of his heart ; and, by restraining the vehe- 
mence and exuberance of his language, at 
times gave to his manners the impression of 
taste, and even of elegance, which in the 
company of men they seldom possessed. 
This influence was doubtless reciprocal. A. 
Scottish lady accustomed to the best society, 
declared with characteristic naivete, that no 
man's conversation ever carried her so com- 
jiletelij off her feet as that of Burns ; and 
an Enghsh lady, familiarly acquainted with 
several of the most distinguished characters 
of the ))resent times, assured the editor, that 
in the happiest of his social hours, there was 
a charm about Bums which she had never 
seen equalled. This charm arose not more 
from the power than the versatility of his 
genius. No languor could be felt in the 
society of a man who passed at pleasure 
from (/rave to gay, from the ludicrous to 
the pathetic, from the simple to the sub- 
lime; who wielded all his fticulties with 
equal strength and ease, and never failed to 
impress the offspring of his fancy with the 
stamp of his understanding. 

This, indeed, is to represent Bums in his 
happiest phasis. In large and mixed parties 
he was often silent and dark, sometimes 
fierce and overbearing ; he was jealous of 
the proud man's scorn, jealous to an extreme 
of the insolence of wealth, and prone to 
avenge, even on its innocent possessor, the 
partiality of fortune. By nature kind, brave, 
sincere, and in a singular degree compas- 
sionate, he was on tlie other hand proud, 
irascible, and vindictive. His virtues and his 
faihngs had their origin in the extraordinary 
sensibility of his mind, and equally partook 
of the chills and glows of sentiment. His 
friendships were liable to interruption from 
jealousy or disgust, and his enmities died 
away under the influence of pity or self- 
accusation. His understanding was equal 
to the other powers of his mind, and his 
deliberate opinions were singularly candid 
and just ; but, like other men of great and 
irregular genius, the opinions which he de- 
livered in conversation were often the 
offspring of temporary feelings, and widely 
different from the calm decisions of his 
judgment. This was not merely true re- 
specting the characters of others, but in 



CHARACTERISTICS OF BURNS. 



(id 



regard to some of the most important points 
of human speculation. 

On no subject did he give a more striking 
proof of the strength of his understanding, 
than in tlie correct estimate he formed of 
himself. He knew his own failings ; he 
predicted their consequence ; the melancholy 
foreboding was never long absent from his 
mind ; yet his passions carried him down 
the stream of error, and swept him over the 
precii)ice he saw directly in his course. The 
fatal defect in his character lay in the 
comparative weakness of his volition, that 
superior faculty of the mind, which, govern- 
ing the conduct according to the dictates of 
the understanding, alone entitles it to be 
denominated rational; which is the parent 
of fortitude, patience, and self-denial; which, 
by regulating and combining human exer- 
tions, may be said to have effected all that 
is great in the works of man, in literature, 
in science, or on the face of nature. The 
occupations of a poet are not calculated to 
strengthen the governing powers of the 
mind, or to weaken that sensibility which 
requires perpetual control, since it gives 
birth to the vehemence of passion as well 
as to the higher powers of imagination. 
Unfortunately, the favourite occupations of 
genius are calculated to increase all its pecu- 
liarities ; to nourish that lofty pride which 
disdains the littleness of prudence, and the 
restrictions of order : and, by indulgence, 
to increase that sensibility which, in the 
present form of our existence, is scarcely 
compatible with peace or happiness, even 
when accompanied with the choicest gifts of 
fortune! 

It is observed by one who was a friend 
and associate of Burns (116), and who has 
contemplated and explained the system of 
animated nature, that no sentient being with 
mental powers greatly superior to those of 
men, could possibly live and be happy in 
this world. "If such a being really existed," 
continues he, "his misery would be extreme. 
'N^'ith senses more delicate and retined; with 
perceptions more acute and penetrating ; 
with a taste so exquisite that the objects 
around him would by no means gratify it ; 
obliged to feed on nourishment too gross for 
his frame — he must be born only to be 
miserable, and the continuation of his exist- 
ence would be utterly impossible. Even in 
our present condition, the sameness and the 
insipidity of objects and pursuits, the futility 
of pleasure, and the intinite sources of ex- 
cruciating pain, are supported with great 
difficulty by cultivated and refined minds. 
Increase our sensibilities, continue the same 



objects and situation, and no man could bear 
to live." 

Thus it appears, that our powers of sen- 
sation, as well as all our other powers, are 
adapted to the scene of our existence ; that 
they are limited in mercy, as well as in 
wisdom. 

Tlie speculations of Mr. Smellie are not to 
be considered as the dreams of a theorist ; 
they were probably founded on sad experi- 
ence. The being he supposes "with senses 
more delicate and refined, with perceptions 
more acute and penetrating," is to be found 
in real life. He is of the temperament of 
genius, and perhaps a poet. Is there, tiien, 
no remedy for this inordinate sensibility ? 
Are there no means by which the happiness 
of one so constituted by nature may be con- 
sulted ? Perhaps it will be found, tliat 
regular and constant occupation, irksome 
though at first it may be, is the true remedy. 
Occupation in wliich the powers of the un- 
derstanding are exercised, will diminish tlie 
force of external impressions, and keep the 
imagination under restraint. 

That the bent of every man's mind should 
be followed in his education and in his des- 
tination in life, is a maxim which has been 
often repeated, but which cannot be admitted 
without many restrictions. It may be gene- 
rally true when applied to weak minds, which 
being capable of little, must be encouraged 
and strengthened in the feeble impulses by 
which that little is produced. But where 
indulgent nature has bestowed her gifts with 
a liberal hand, the very reverse of this maxim 
ought frequently to be the rule of conduct. 
In minds of a higher order, the object of 
instruction and of discipline is very often to 
restrain, rather than to impel ; to curb the 
impulses of imagination, so that the passions 
also may be kept under control. (117j 

Hence the advantages, even in a moral 
point of view, of studies of a severer nature, 
which, while they inform the understanding, 
employ the volition, that regulating power 
of the mind, which, like all our other facid- 
ties, is strengthened by exercise, and on the 
superiority of which virtue, happiness, and 
honourable fame, are wholly dependent. 
Hence also the advantage of regular and 
constant application, which aids the volun- 
tary power by the production of habits so 
necessary to the support of order and virtue, 
and so ditlicult to be formed in the tempera- 
ment of genius. The man who is so 
endowed and so regulated, may pursue his 
course with confidence in almost any of the 
various walks of life which choice or acci- 
dent shall open to him ; and, provided he 



C6 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



employ the talents he has cultivated, may 
hope for such imperfect happiness, and such 
limited success, as are reasonably to be ex- 
pected from human exertions. 

The pre-eminence among men, which pro- 
cures personal respect, and which terminates 
in lasting reputation, is seldom or never 
obtained by the excellence of a single faculty 
of mind. Experience teaches us, that it has 
been acquired by those only who have pos- 
sessed the comprehension and the energy of 
general talents, and who have regulated 
tlieir application in the line which choice, or 
perhaps accident, may have determined, by 
the dictates of their judgment. Imagination 
is supposed, and with justice, to be the 
leading faculty of tlie poet. But what poet 
has stood the test of time by the force of 
this single faculty ? Who does not see that 
Homer and Shakspeare excelled the rest of 
their species in understanding as well as in 
imagination ; that they were pre-eminent in 
the highest species of knowledge — the know- 
ledge of the nature and character of man? 
On the other hand, the talent of ratiocination 
is more especially requisite to the orator; 
but no man ever obtained the palm of oratory, 
even by the highest excellence in this single 
talent. "Wlio does not perceive that Demos- 
thenes and Cicero were not more happy in 
their addresses to the reason than in their 
appeals to the passions? Tliey knew, that 
to excite, to agitate, and to delight, are 
among the most potent arts of persuasion ; 
and they enforced their impression on the 
understanding, by their command of all the 
sympathies of the heart. These observations 
might be extended to other walks of life. 
He who has the faculties fitted to excel in 
poetry, has the faculties which, didy governed, 
and differently directed, might lead to pre- 
eminence in other, and, as far as respects 
himself, perhaps in happier destinations. 
The talents necessary to the eonstructicii 
of an Iliad, under different discipline and 
application, might have led armies to vic- 
tory, or kingdoms to prosperity ; might have 
wielded the thunder of eloquence, or dis- 
covered and enlarged the sciences that con- 
Btitute the power and improve the condition 
of our species. (118) Such talents are, 
indeed, rare among the productions of na- 
ture, and occasions of bringing them into 
full exertion are rarer still. But safe and 
salutary occupations may be found for men 
of genius in every direction, while the useful 
and ornamental arts remain to be cvdtixated, 
while the sciences remain to be studied and 
to be extended, and principles of science to 
be applied to the correction and improve- 



ment of art. In the temperament of sensi- 
bility, which is, in truth, the temperament of 
general talents, the principal object of disci- 
pline and instruction is, as has already been 
mentioned, to strengthen the self-command ; 
and this may be promoted by the direction of 
the studies, more effectually, perhaps, than 
has been generally understood. 

If these observations be founded in truth, 
they may lead to practical consequences of 
some importance. It has been too much 
the custom to consider the possession of 
poetical talents as excluding the possibility 
of application to the severer branches of 
study, and as, in some degree, incapacitating 
the possessor from attaining those habits, 
and from bestowing that attention, which 
are necessary to success in the details of 
business, and in the engagements of active 
life. It has been common for persons con- 
scious of such talents, to look with a sort of 
disdain on other kinds of intellectual excel- 
lence, and to consider themselves as in some 
degree absolved from those rules of prudence 
by which humbler minds are restricted. 
They are too much disposed to abandon 
themselves to their own sensations, and to 
suffer life to pass away without regular 
exertion or settled purpose. 

But though men of genius are generally 
prone to indolence, with tliem indolence and 
unhappiness are in a more especial manner 
allied. The unbidden splendours of imagi- 
nation may, indeed, at times irradiate tho 
gloom which inactivity produces ; but such 
visions, though bright, are transient, and 
serve to cast the realities of life into deeper 
shade. In bestowing great talents. Nature 
seems very generally to have imposed on the 
possessor the necessity of exertion, if he 
would escape WTetchedness. Better for him 
tlian sloth, toils the most painful, or adven- 
tures the most hazardous. Happier to him 
than idleness were the condition of the 
peasant, earning with incessant labour his 
scanty food ; or that of the sailor, though 
hanging on the yard-arm, and wrestUng with 
the hurricane. 

These observations might be amply illus- 
trated by the biography of men of genius of 
every denomination, and more especially by 
the biography of tlie poets. Of this last 
description of men, few seem to have enjoyed 
the usual portion of happiness that falls to 
the lot of humanity, those excepted who 
have cultivated poetry as an elegant amuse- 
jnent in the hours of relaxation from other 
occupations, or the small number who have 
engaged with success in the greater or more 
arduous attempts of the muse, in which all 



INFLUENCES OF MELANCHOLY. 



67 



the faculties of the mind have been fully 
and permanently employed. Even taste, 
virtue, and comparative independence, do 
not seem capable of bestowing on men of 
pcnius peace and tranquillity, without such 
occupation as may g\ve regular and healthful 
exercise to the faculties of body and mind. 
The amiable Shenstone has left us the re- 
cords of his imprudence, of his indolence, 
and of his unhappiness, amidst the shades 
of the liCasowes ; and the virtues, the learn- 
ing:, and the geni\is of Gray, equal to the 
loftiest attempts of the epic muse, failed to 
procure him in the academic bowers of Cam- 
bridge that tranquillity and that respect 
which less fastidiousness of taste, and greater 
constancy and vigour of exertion, would have 
doubtless obtained. 

It is more necessary that men of genius 
should be aware of the importance of self- 
command, and of exertion, because their 
indolence is peculiarly exposed, not merely 
to unhappiness, but to diseases of mind, and 
to errors of conduct, which are generally 
fatal. This interesting subject deserves a 
particular investigation ; but we must content 
ourselves with one or two cursory remarks. 
Belief is sometimes sought from the melan- 
choly of indolence in practices which, for a 
time, soothe and gratify the sensations, but 
which, in the end, involve the sufferer in 
darker gloom. To command the external 
circumstances by which happiness is affected, 
is not in lunnan power ; but there are various 
substances in nature which operate on the 
system of the nerves, so as to give a fictitious 
gaiety to the ideas of imagination, and to 
alter the effect of the external impressions 
which we receive. Opium is chiefly em- 
ployed for this purpose by the disciples of 
]\Tahomet and the inhabitants of Asia ; but 
alcohol, the principle of intoxication in 
vinous and spirituous liquors, is preferred in 
Europe, and is iniiversally used in the Chris- 
tian world. (119) Under the various wounds to 
which indolent insensibility is exposed, and 
under the gloomy apprehensions respecting 
futurity to which it is so often a prey, how 
strong is the temptation to have recourse 
to an antidote by which the pain of these 
wounds is suspended, by which the heart is 
exhilirated, visions of happuiess are excited 
in the mind, and the forms of external na- 
ture clothed with new beauty ! 

" Elysium opens round, 
A pleasinp phrcnzy buoys the lijihtcn'd soul, 
And sanguine hopes dispel your ticctinir care; 
And what was difficult, and what wjs dire, 
Yields to your prowess, and superior stars ; 
The happiest you of all that e'er w ere mad, 



Or are, or shall be, could this folly last. 

But soon your heaven is gone ; a hcaviei 

ploom 

Shuts o'er your head 

• • • • 

Morning comes ; your cares return 

With tenfold rage. An anxious stomach well 
May be endured— so may the throbbing head: 
But such a dim delirium, such a dream 
Involves you ; such a dastardly despair 
Uiunans your soul, as madd'ning Pentheus 

felt, 
AVhen, baited round Cithoeron's cruel sides, 
lie saw two suns and double Thebes ascend." 
— Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health, b. iv. 
1. 163. 

Such are the pleasures and pains of intoxi- 
cation, as they occur in the temperament of 
sensibility, described by a genuine poet, with 
a degree of truth and energy which nothing 
but experience could have dictated. There 
are, indeed, some individuals of this tern- 
perament on whom wine produces no cheer- 
ing influence. On some, even in very 
moderate qxiantities, its effects are painfully 
irritating ; in large draughts it excites dark 
and melancholy ideas ; and in draughts still 
larger, the fierceness of insanity itself Such 
men are happily exempted from a temptation 
to which experience teaches us the finest 
dispositions often yield, and the influence of 
which, when strengthened by habit, it is a 
humiliating truth, that the most powerful 
minds have not been able to resist. 

It is the more necessary for men of genius 
to be on their guard against the habitual 
use of wine, because it is apt to steal on 
them insensibly, and because the temptation 
to excess usually presents itself to them in 
their social hours, when they are alive only 
to warm and generous emotions, and when 
prudence and moderation are often con- 
temned as selfishness and timitiity. 

It is the more necessary for them to gciard 
against excess in the use of wine, because on 
them its etfccts are, physically and morally, 
in an especial manner injurious. In pro- 
portion to its stimulating influence on the 
system (on which the pleasurable sensations 
depend, is the debility that ensues — a de- 
bility that destroys digestion, and terminates 
in habitnal fe\er, dropsy, jaundice, paralysis, 
or insanity. As the strength of the body 
decays, the volition fails; in proportion as 
the sensations are soothed aiul gratified, the' 
sensibility increases ; and morbid sensibility 
is the parent of indolence, because, while it 
impairs the regulating power of the mind, it 
exaggerates all the obstacles to exertion. 
Activity, perseverance, and self-commai d, 
become more and more difficidt, and the grcdt 
purposes of jtility, patriotism, or of honour- 



68 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



a1)le ambition, which had occupied the ima- 
gination, die away in fruitless resolutions, or 
in feeble efforts. 

To apply these observations to the subject 
of our memoirs, would be a useless as well 
as a painful task. It is, indeed, a duty we 
owe to the hving-, not to allow our admira- 
tion of g-reat genius, or even our pity for its 
unhappy destiny, to conceal or disguise its 
errors. But there are sentiments of respect, 
and even of tenderness, with which this 
duty should be performed ; there is an awful 
sanctity which invests the mansions of the 
dead ; and let those who moralise over the 
graves of their contemporaries, reflect with 
humility on their owai errors, nor forget how 
soon they may themselves require the can- 
dour and the sympathy they are called upon 
to bestow. 



Soon after the death of Burns, the follow- 
ing article appeared in the Dumfries Journal, 
from wliich it was copied into the Edinburgh 
newspapers, and into various other periodical 
publications. It is from the elegant pen of 
a lady, already alluded to in the course of 
these memoirs (120), whose exertions for the 
family of our bard, in the circles of literature 
and fashion in which she moves, have done 
her so much honour. 

" The attention of the public seems to be 
much occupied at present with the loss it 
has recently sustained in the death of the 
Caledonian poet, Robert Burns ; a loss cal- 
culated to be severely felt throughout the 
literary world, as well as lamented in the 
narrower sphere of private friendship. It 
was not, therefore, probable that such an 
event should be long unattended with the 
accustomed profusion of posthumous anec- 
dotes and memoirs which are usually circu- 
lated immediately after the death of every 
rare and celebrated personage : I had, how- 
ever, conceived no intention of appropriating 
to myself the privilege of criticising Burns's 
writings and character, or of anticipating on 
the province of a biographer. 

" Conscious, indeed, of my own inability to 
do justice to such a subject, I should have 
continued wholly silent, had misrepresenta- 
tion and calumny been less industrious ; but 
a regard to truth, no less than aft'ection for 
the memory of a friend, must now justify 
my offering to the public a few at least of 
those observations which an intimate ac- 
quaintance with Burns, and the frequent 
opportunities I have had of observing equally 
his happy qualities and his failings for several 
years past, have enabled me to communicate. 



" It will actually be an injustice done tc 
Burns's character, not only by future genera- 
tions and foreign countries, but even by his 
native Scotland, and perhaps a number of his 
contemporaries, that he is generally talked of, 
and considered, with reference to his poetical 
talents only ; for the fact is, even allowing 
his great and original genius its due tribute 
of admiration, that poetry (I appeal to all 
who have had the advantage of being per- 
sonally acquainted with him) was actuaUy 
not his forte. Many others, perhaps, may 
have ascended to prouder heights in the 
region of Parnassus, but none certainly ever 
outshone Burns in the charms, the sorcery, 
I would almost call it, of fascinating conver- 
sation, the spontaneous eloquence of social 
argument, or the unstudied poignancy of 
brilliant repartee ; nor was any man, I be- 
lieve, ever gifted with a larger portion of the 
'vivida vis animi.' His personal endowments 
were perfectly correspondent to the qualifi- 
cations of his mind — his form was manly — 
his action, energy itself — devoid in a great 
measure perhaps of those graces, of that 
polish, acquired only in the refinement of 
societies where in early life he could have no 
opportunities of mixing ; but where such was 
the irresistible power of attraction that en- 
circled him, though his appearance and 
manners were always peculiar, he never failed 
to delight and to excel. His figure seemed 
to bear testimony to his earlier destination 
and employments. It seemed rather moulded 
by nature for the rough exercises of agricul- 
ture, than the gentler cultivation of the Belles 
Lettres. His features were stamped with 
the hardy character of independence, and the 
firmness of conscious, though not arrogant, 
pre-eminence; the animated expressions of 
countenance were almost peculiar to himself; 
the rapid lightnings of his eye were always 
the harbingers of some flash of genius, 
whether they darted the fiery glances of 
insulted and indignant superiority, or beamed 
with the impassioned sentiment of fervent 
and impetuous aff'ections. His voice alone 
could improve upon the magic of his eye : 
sonorous, replete with the finest modulations, 
it alternately captivated the ear with the 
melody of poetic numbers, the perspicuity of 
nervous reasoning, or the ardent sallies of 
enthusiastic patriotism. The keenness of 
satire was, I am almost at a loss whether to 
say,his/o/"^e or his foible ; for though nature 
had endowed him with a portion of the most 
pointed excellence in that dangerous talent, 
he suffered it too often to be the vehicle of 
personal.and sometimes unfounded, animo- 
sities. It was uot always that sportiveuejje 



INADEQUACY OF NATIVE CRITICIS^I. 



69 



of humour, that ' unwary pleasantry,' which 
Sterne has depicted with touches so conci- 
liatory, but the darts of ridicide were 
frequently directed as the caprice of the 
instant sujrgested, or as the altercations of 
parties and of persons happened to kindle 
the restlessness of his spirit into interest or 
aversion. This, however, was not invariably 
the case ; his wit (which is no unusual matter 
indeed) had always the start of his judj;ment, 
and would lead him to the indulgence of 
raillery uniformly acute, but often accomjia- 
nied with the least desire to wound. The 
suppression of an arch and full-pointed bon- 
mot, from a dread of offending its object, the 
sage of Zurich very properly classes as a 
virtue onhj to be sought for in the calendar of 
saints ; if so. Burns must not be too severely 
dealt with for being rather deficient in it. 
lie paid for his mischievous wit as dearly as 
any one could do. ' 'Twas no extravagant 
arithmetic,' to say of him, as was said of 
Yorick, that ' for every ten jokes he got a 
hundred enemies ; ' but much allowance will 
be made by a candid mind for the splenetic 
warmth of a spirit whom ' distress had spited 
with the world,' and which, unbounded in its 
intellectual sallies and pursuits, continually 
experienced the curbs imposed by the way- 
wardness of his fortune. The vivacity of 
his wishes and temper was indeed checked by 
almost habitual disappointments, which sat 
heavy on a heart that acknowledged the 
ruling passion of independence, without 
having ever been placed beyond the grasp of 
penury. His soul was never languid or in- 
active, and his genius was extinguished only 
with the last spark of retreating life. His 
passions rendered him, according as they 
disclosed themselves in affection or antipathy, 
an object of enthusiastic attachment, or of 
decided enmity ; for he possessed none of 
that negative insipidity of character, whose 
love might be regarded with indifference, or 
whose resentment could be considered with 
contempt. In this, it should seem, the 
temper of his associates took the tincture 
from his own; for he acknowledged in the 
universe but two classes of objects, those of 
adoration the most fervent, or of aversion the 
most uncontrollable ; and it has been fre- 
quently a reproach to him, that, unsusceptible 
of indifference, often hating where he ought 
only to have despised, he alternately opened 
his heart and poured forth the treasures of 
his understanding to such as were incapable 
of appreciating the homage ; and elevated to 
the pri\ileges of an adversary some who 
were lUKpialified in all respects for the honour 
of a contest so djstinguislied. 



"It is said that the celebrated Dr. Johnson 
professed to ' love a good hater ' — a temiicra- 
ineut that would have singularly adapted Inui 
to cherish a prepossession in favour of our 
bard, who perhaps fell but little short even 
of the surly doctor in this qualification, as 
long as the disposition to ill-will continued ; 
but the warmth of his passions was fortu- 
nately corrected by their versatility. He w as 
seldom, indeed never, implacable in his re- 
sentments, and sometimes, it has been 
alleged, not inviolably faithful in his engaire- 
ments of friendship. Much, indeed, has 
been said about his inconstancy and caprice ; 
but I am inclined to believe, that they origi- 
nated less in a levity of sentiment, than from 
an extreme impetuosity of feeling, which 
rendered him prompt to take umbrage ; and 
his sensations of pique, where he fancied he 
had discovered the traces of neglect, scorn, 
or Hukindness, took their measure of asperity 
from the overflomngs of the opposite senti- 
ment which preceded them, and which seldom 
failed to regain its ascendancy in his bosom 
on the return of calmer reflection. He was 
candid and manly in the avowal of his errors, 
and his avowal \vas a reparation. His native 
fierle never forsaking him for a moment, the 
value of a frank acknowledgment was en- 
hanced tenfold towards a generous mind, 
from its never being attended with servility. 
His mind, organised only for the stronger 
and more acute operations of the passions, 
was impracticable to the efforts of super- 
ciliousness that would have depressed it into 
humility, and equally superior to the en- 
croachments of venal suggestions that might 
have led him into the mazes of hypocrisy. 

"It has been observed that he was far from 
averse to the incense of flattery, and could 
receive it tempered with less delicacy than 
might have been expected, as he seldom 
transgressed extravagantly in that way him- 
self ; where he paid a compliment, it might 
indeed claim the power of intoxication, as 
approbation from him was always an honest 
tribute from the warmth and suicerity of his 
heart. It has been sometimes represented 
by those who, it should seem, had a view to 
depreciate, though they could not hope 
wholly to obscure, that native brilliancy 
which the powers of this extraordinary man 
had invariably bestowed on every thing that 
came from his lips or pen, that the history 
of the Ayrshire ploughboy was an ingenious 
fiction, fabricated for the purposes of obtain- 
ing the interests of the great, and enhancing 
the merits of what in reality required no foil. 
The Cotter's Saturday Night, Tarn o' Shan- 
ter, and The Mountain Daisy, besides a 



70 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



D nnbor of later productions, where the 
miturity of his genius will be readily traced, 
and which will be given to the public as soon 
as his friends have collected and arranged 
them, speak sutticiently for themselves ; and 
haJ ciiey fallen from a hand more dignified 
in the ranks of society than that of a peasant, 
they had perhaps bestowed as unusual a 
grace there, as even in the humbler shade of 
rustic inspiration from whence they really 
sprang. 

" To the obscure scene of Burns's educa- 
tion, and to the laborious, though honourable 
station of rural industry in which his parent- 
age enrolled him, almost every inhabitant of 
the south of Scotland can give testimony. 
His only surviving brother, Gilbert Burns, 
now guides the ploughshare of his forefathers 
in Ayrshire, at a farm near Mauchline ; and 
our poet's eldest sou, a lad of nine years of 
age, whose early dispositions already prove 
him to be in some measure the inheritor of 
his father's talents as well as indigence, has 
been destined by his family to the humble 
employments of the loom. 

" That Burns had received no classical 
education, and was acquainted with the 
Greek and Roman authors only through the 
medium of translations, is a fact of which all 
who were in the habit'of conversing with him 
might readily be convinced. I have, indeed, 
seldom observed him to be at a loss in con- 
versation, ludess where the dead languages 
and their writers have been the subjects of 
discussion. When I have pressed him to tell 
me why he never applied himself to acquire 
the Latin, in particular, a language which 
his happy memory would have so soon en- 
abled him to be master of, he used only to 
reply with a smile, that he liad already 
learnt all the Latiu he desired to know, and 
that was omnia vmcit amor — a sentence, that 
from his writings and most favourite pur- 
suits, it should undoubtedly seem that he 
was most thoroughly versed in ; but I really 
believe his classic erudition extended little, 
if any, farther. 

"The penchant Burns had uniformly ac- 
knowledged for the festive pleasures of the 
table, and towards the fairer and softer 
objects of nature's creation, has been the 
rallying point whence the attacks of his 
censors have been uniformly directed , and 
to these, it must be confessed, he showed 
himself no stoic. His poetical pieces blend 
with alternate happiness of description, the 
frolic spirit of the flowing bowl, or melt the 
heart to the tender and uupassioned senti- 
ments in which beauty always taught him to 
»oar forth his own. But who would wish to 



reprove the feelings he has consecrated with 
such lively touches of nature ? And where 
is the rugged moralist who will persuade us 
so far to 'chill the genial current of the 
soul,' as to regret that Ovid ever celebrated 
his Corinna, or that Anacreon sang beneath 
his vine ? 

" I will not, however, undertake to be the 
apologist of the irregularities even of a man 
of genius, though I believe it is as certain 
that genius never was free from irregulari- 
ties, as that their absolution may, in great 
n\easure, be justly claimed, since it is per- 
fectly evident that the world had continued 
very stationary in its intellectual acquire- 
ments, had it never given birth to any but 
men of plain sense. Evenness of conduct, 
and a due regard to the decorums of the 
world, have been so rarely seen to move 
hand in hand with genius, that some have 
gone as far as to say, tliough there I cannot 
wholly acquiesce, that they are even in- 
com|)atible ; besides, the frailties tliat cast 
their shade over the splendour of superior 
merit, are more conspicuously glaring than 
where they are the attendants of mere me- 
diocrity. It is only on the gem we are dis- 
turbed to see the dust ; the pebble may be 
soiled, and we never regard it. The eccen- 
tric intuitions of genius too often yield the 
soul to the wild effervescence of desires, 
always inibounded, and sometimes equally 
dangerous to the repose of others as fatal to 
its own. No wonder, then, if virtue her- 
self be sometimes lost in the blaze of 
kindling animation, or that the calm moni- 
tions of reason are not invariably found 
sufficient to fetter an iniagination, which 
scorns the narrow limits and restrictions 
that would chain it to the level of ordinary 
minds. The child of nature, the child of 
sensibility, unschooled in the rigid precepts 
of plulosophy, too often unable to control 
the passions which proved a source of 
frequent errors and misfortunes to him. 
Burns made his own artless apology iu 
language more impressive than all the argu- 
mentatory vindications in the world could 
do, in one of his own poems, where he de- 
lineates the gradual expansion of his mind 
to the lessons of the ' tutelary muse,' who 
concludes an address to her pupil, almost 
unique for simplicity and beautiful poetry, 
with these lines : — 

' I saw thy pulse's madd'ninfr play 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way ; 
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray. 

By passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray: 
Was light f run heaven* 



TECULIAltlTIES, ETC. 



71 



"1 liave already transgressed beyond the 
bounds I liad proposed to myself on lirst 
committiiii; this sketch to paper, which com- 
prehends what at least I have been led to 
deem the leading; features of Bums's mind 
and character. A literary critique I do not 
aim at — mine is wholly fulfilled if, in these 
paj;es, I have been able to delineate any of 
those stronj; traits that distinjjuished hira, 
of those talents which raised him from the 
I)louu:h, where he passed the bleak morniii<!; 
of his life, weaving liis rude wreaths of 
poesy with the wild tield-flowers that sprang 
around his cottage, to that enviable eminence 
of literary fame, where Scotland will long 
cherish his memory with delight and grati- 
tude ; and proudly remember that, beneath 
her cold sky, a genius was ripened, without 
care or culture, that would have done honour 
to climes more favourable tft those luxuri- 
ances — that warmth of colouring and fancy 
iu which he so eminently excelled. 

" From several paragraphs 1 have noticed 
in the public prints, ever since the idea of 
sending this sketch to some one of them 
was formed, I find private animosities have 
not yet subsided, and that envy has not yet 
exhausted all her shafts. I still trust, how- 
ever, that honest fame will be permanently 
altixed to Biirns's character, which I think it 
will be found he lias merited, by the candid 
and impartial among liis countrymen. And 
where a recollection of the imprudences that 
sullied his brighter qualitications interpose, 
let the imperfection of all human excellence 
be remembered at the same time, leaving 
those inconsistencies, which alternately ex- 
alted his nature into the seraph, and sank it 
again into the man, to the tribunal which 
alone can investigate the labyrinths of the 
human heart — 

• Where they alike in tremblin": hope repose, 
^'I'he bosom of his father and his G^jd.' 

Grav's Elegy. 
" Aunandale, Awjust 7, 1796." 

After this account of the life and personal 
character of Burns, it may be expected that 
some inquiry should be made into his 
literary merits. It will not, however, be 
necessary to enter very minutely into this 
investigation. If fiction be, as some sup- 
pose, the soul of poetry, no one had ever 
less pretensions to the name of poet than 
Burns. Though he has displayed great 
powers of imagination, yet the subjects on 
which he has written are seldom, if ever, 
imaginary ; his poems, as well as his letters, 
may be considered as the effusions of his 
eensibility, and the transcript of his own 
musings ou the real iucideuti of his humble 



life. If we add, that they also contain most 
happy delineations of the characters, man- 
ners, and scenery, that presented themselves 
to his observation, we shall include almost 
all the subjects of his muse. His writings 
may, therefore, be regarded as alfuriling a 
great part of the data ou which our account 
of his personal character has been founded ; 
and most of the observations we have ap- 
plied to the man, are applicable, with little 
variation, to the poet. 

The impression of his birth, and of his 
original station in hfe, was not more evident 
on his form and manners, than on his 
poetical productions. The incidents which 
form the subjects of his poems, though some 
of them highly interesting, and susceptible 
of poetical imagery, are incidents in the life 
of a peasant who takes no pains to disguise 
the lowliness of his condition, or to throw 
into shade the circumstances attending it, 
which more feeble or more artificial minds 
would have endeavoured to conceal. The 
same rudeness and inattention appears in 
the formation of his rhymes, which are 
frequently incorrect, while the measure in 
which many of the poems are written has 
little of the pomp or harmony of modern 
versification, and is, indeed, to an English 
ear strange and uncouth. The greater part 
of his earlier poems are written in the dialect 
of his country, which is obscure, if not 
unintelligible, to Enghslimen ; and which, 
though it still adheres more or less to the 
speech of almost every Scotsman, all the 
polite and the ambitious are now endeavour- 
ing to banish from their tongues as well as 
their writings. The use of it in composition 
naturally, therefore, calls up ideas of vul- 
garity in the mind. These singularities are 
increased by the character of the poet, who 
delights to express himself with a simplicity 
that approaches to nakedness, and with an 
unmeasured energy that often alarms deli- 
cacy, and sometimes offends taste. Hence, 
in approaching him, the first impression is, 
perhaps, repulsive : there is an air of coarse- 
ness about him, which is ditticultly recon- 
ciled with our established notions of poetical 
excellence. 

As the reader, however, becomes better 
acquainted with the poet, the effects of his 
peculiarities lessen. He perceives in his 
poems, even on the lowest subjects, expres- 
sions of sentiment, and delineations of 
manners, which are highly interesting. The 
scenery he describes is evidently taken from 
real life ; the characters he nitroduces, and 
the incidents hi; relates, have the impression 
of nature and truth. His humour, though 



72 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



>vil(l and unbridled, is irresistibly amiisiiiff, 
and is sometimes hei};lUen€d in its effects by 
tlie introduction of emotions of tenderness, 
with which genuine humour so happily 
unites. Nor is this the extent of his power. 
The reader, as he examines farther, discovers 
that the poet is not confined to the descrip- 
tive, the humorous, or the pathetic ; he is 
found, as occasion offers, to rise with ease 
into the terrible and the sublime. Every- 
where he appears devoid of artifice, per- 
forming what lie attempts with little appa- 
rent efifort, and impressing on the offspring 
of his fancy the stamp of his imderstandiiif/. 
The reader, capable of forming a just esti- 
mate of poetical talents, discovers in these 
circumstances marks of uncommon genius, 
and is willing to investigate more minutely 
its nature and its claims to originality. This 
last point we shall examine first. 

That Burns had not the advantages of a 
classical education, or of any degree of ac- 
quaintance with the Greek or Roman writers 
in tlieir original dress, has appeared in the 
history of his life. He acquired, indeed, 
some knowledge of the French languiige, 
but it does not appear that he was ever much 
conversant in French literature, nor is there 
any evidence of his having derived any of 
his poetical stores from that source. With 
the English classics he became well ac- 
quainted ill the course of his life, and the 
effect of this acquaintance are observable in 
his later productions ; but the character and 
style of his poetry were formed very early, 
and the model which he followed, in as far 
as he can be said to have had one, is to be 
sought for in the works of the poets who 
have written in the Scottish dialect — in the 
works of such of them more especially, as 
are familiar to the peasantry of Scotland. 
Some observations on these may form a 
proper introduction to a more particular 
examination of the poetry of Burns. The 
studies of the editor in this direction are 
indeed very recent and very imperfect. It 
would liave been imprudent for him to have 
entered on this subject at all, but for the 
kindness of Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, 
whose assistance he is proud to acknowledge, 
and to whom the reader must ascribe 
wliatever is of any value in the following 
imperfect sketch of literary compositions iu 
the Scottish idiom. 

It is a circumstance not a little curious, 
and which does not seem to be satisfactorily 
explained, that in the thirteenth century, 
the language of the two British nations, if 
at all different, differed only in dialect, the 
liaelic in the one, like the Welsh and Ar- 



moric in the other, being confined to the 
mountainous districts. The Kiighsh under 
the Edwards, and tlie Scots under Wallace 
and Bruce, spoke the same language. We 
may observe also, that in Scotland, tlie his- 
tory of poetry ascends to a period nearly a3 
remote as in England. Barber, and Blind 
Harry, James the First, Dunbar. Douglas, 
and Lindsay, who lived in the fourteenth, 
fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries, were coevd 
with the fathers of poetry in England ; and, 
in the opinion of Mr. Wartoii, not inferior 
to them ill genius or in composition. Though 
the language of the two countries gradually 
deviated from each other during this period, 
yet the difference on the whole was not con- 
siderable ; not perhaps, greater than between 
the different dialects of the different parts of 
England in our own time. 

At the death of James V. iu 1542, the 
language of Scotland was ia ?, flourishing 
condition, wanting only vriters in prose 
equal to those in verse. Two vurcumstances, 
propitious on the whole, operated to prevent 
this. The first was the passion of the Scots 
for composition in Latin, and the second, 
the accession of James VL to the English 
throne. It may easily be imasined, that if 
Buchanan had devoted his admirable talents, 
even in part, to the cultivation of his native 
tongue, as was done by the revivers of letters 
in Italy, he would have left compositions in 
that language which might have incited other 
men of genius to have followed his ex- 
ample (121), and given duration to the lan- 
guage itself. The union of the two crowns 
in the person of James, overthrew all rea^ 
sonable expectation of this kind. That 
monarch, seated on the English throne, 
would no longer suffer himself to be ad- 
dressed in the rude dialect in which the 
Scottish clergy had so often insulted his 
dignity. He encouraged Latin or English 
only, both of which he prided liimselif ou 
writing with purity, though he himself never 
could acquire the English pronunciation, 
but spoke with a Scottish idiom and intoiiu/- 
tiou to the last. Scotsmen of talents de- 
clined writing in their native language, which 
they knew was not acceptable to their 
learned and pedantic monarch ; and at a 
time when national prejudice and enmity 
prevailed to a great degree, they disdained 
to study the niceties of the English tongue, 
though of so much easier acquisition than 
a dead language. Lord Stirling, and Drum- 
i mond of Hawthornden, the only Scotsmen 
j who wrote poetry in those times, were ex- 
ceptions. They studied the language of 
! England, and composed in it with precision 



UTERATURE OF SCOTLAND. 



73 



Olid elegance. They were, however, the last 
of tlieir countrymen who ileservcd to be 
considered as poets in that century. The 
iiiuses of Scotland sank into silence, and did 
not again raise their voices for a period of 
eighty years. 

To what causes are we to attribute this 
extreme depression among a people compara- 
tively learned, enterprising, and ingenious ? 
Shall we impute it to the fanaticism of tlie 
Covenanters, or to the tyranny of the house 
of Stuart after their restoration to the 
throne ? Doubtless these causes operated, 
but they seem unequal to account for the 
effect. In England, similar distractions and 
oppression took place, yet poetry flourished 
there in a remarkable degree. During this 
period, Cowley, and Waller, and Dryden, 
sang, and iMilton raised his strain of unpa- 
ralleled grandeur. To the causes already 
mentioned, another must be added, in 
accounting for the torpor of Scottish litera- 
ture — the want of a proper vehicle for men 
of genius to employ. The civil wars had 
frightened away the Latin Muses, and no 
standard had been established of the Scottish 
tongue, which was deviating still farther 
from the pure English idiom. 

The revival of literature in Scotland may 
be dated from the establishment of the 
Union, or rather from the extinction of the 
rebellion in 1715. The nations being finally 
incorporated, it was clearly seen that their 
tongues must be in the end incorporate also; 
or rather, indeed, that the Scottish language 
must degenerate into a provincial idiom, to 
be avoided by those who would aim at dis- 
tinction in letters, or rise to eminence in the 
united legislature. 

Soon after this, a band of men of genius 
appeared, who studied the English classics, 
and imitated their beauties, in the same 
manner as they studied the classics of Greece 
and Rome. They had admirable models of 
composition lately presented to them by the 
writers of the reign of tiueen Anne ; par- 
ticularly in the periodical papers published 
by Steele, Addison, and their associated 
friends, which circulated widely through 
Scotland, and diffused everywhere a taste 
for purity of style and sentiment, and for 
critical disquisition. At length, the Scottish 
writers succeeded in English composition, 
and an union was formed of the literary 
talents, as well as of the legislatures of the 
two nations. On this occasion the poets 
took the lead. While Henry Home (122), 
Dr. \\'allace, and their learned associates, 
were only laying in their intellectual stores, 
and studvin'c to clear themselves of their 



Scottish idioms, Thomson, IMallett, and 
Hamilton of Bangour, had made their ap- 
pearance before the public, and been enrolled 
on the list of English poets. The writers 
in prose followed — a numerous and powerful 
band — and poured their ample stores into 
the general stream of Britisli literature. 
Scotland possessed her four universities be- 
fore the accession of James to the English 
throne. Immediately before the Union, she 
acquired her parochial schools. Tlicse esta- 
blishments combining happily together, made 
the elements of knowledge of easy acquisi- 
tion, and presented a direct path by which 
the ardent student might be carried along 
into the recesses of science or learning. As 
civil broils ceased, and faction and prejudice 
gradually died away, a wider field was opened 
to literary ambition, and the influence of the 
Scottish institutions for instruction, on the 
productions of the press, became more and 
more apparent. 

It seems, indeed, probable, that the esta- 
blishment of tiie parochial schools produced 
effects on the rural muse of Scotland also, 
which have not hitherto been suspected, and 
which, though less spleiuhd in their nature, 
are not, however, to be regarded as trivial, 
whether we consider the happiness or the 
morals of the people. 

There is some reason to believe, that the 
original inhabitants of the British isles pos- 
sessed a peculiar and an interesting species 
of music, which being banished from the 
plains by the successive invasions of the 
Saxons, Danes, and Normans, was preserved 
with the native race, in the wilds of Ireland 
and in the mountains of Scotland and \\'ales. 
The Irish, the Scottish, and the Welsh 
music, differ indeed from each other, but the 
difference may be considered as in dialect 
only, and probably produced by the influence 
of time, and like the dift'erent dialects of 
their common language. If this conjecture 
be true, the Scottish music must be more 
immediately of a Highland origin, and the 
Lowland tunes, though now of a character 
somewhat distinct, must have descended 
from the mountains in remote ages. What- 
ever credit may be given to conjectures, 
evidently involved in great uncertainty, there 
can be no doubt that the Scottish peasantry 
have been long in possession of a number of 
songs and ballads composed in their native 
dialect, and sung to their native music. 
The subjects of these compositions were 
such as most interested the sim|)lc inhabi- 
tants, and in the succession of time varied 
probably as the condition of society varied. 
During the separation and the hostility of 



74 



LIFE OF BURNiS. 



the two nations, these songs and ballads, as 
far as our imperfect documents enable us to 
judge, were chiefly warlike ; such as the 
Iluntis of Cheviot, and the Battle of Harlaw. 
After the union of the two crowns, when a 
certain degree of peace and of tranquillity 
took place, the rural muse of Scotland 
breathed in softer accents. "In the want 
of real evidence respecting the history of 
our songs," says Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, 
" recourse may be had to conjecture. One 
would be disposed to think, that the most 
beautiful of the Scottish tunes were clothed 
with new words after the union of the 
crowns. The inhabitants of the borders, 
who had formerly been warriors from choice, 
and husbandmen from necessity, either 
quitted the country, or were transformed 
into real sliepherds, easy in their circum- 
stances, and satistted with their lot. Some 
sparks of that spirit of chivalry for which 
they are celebrated by Froissart, remained, 
sutticient to inspire elevation of sentiment 
and gallantry towards the fair sex. The 
familiarity and kindness which had long 
subsisted between the gentry and the pea- 
santry, could not all at once be obliterated, 
and this connexion tended to sweeten rural 
life. In this state of innocence, ease, and 
tranquillity of mind, the love of poetry and 
music would still maintain its ground, though 
it would naturally assume a form congenial 
to the more peaceful state of society. The 
minstrels, whose metrical tales used once to 
rouse the borderers like the trumpet's sound, 
had been, by an order of the legislature (in 
1579), classed with rogues and vagabonds, 
and attempted to be suppressed. Knox and 
his disciples influenced the Scottish parlia- 
ment, but contended in vain with her rural 
muse. Amidst our Arcadian vales, probably 
on the banks of the Tweed, or some of its 
tributary streams, one or more original 
geniuses may have arisen, who were destined 
to give a new turn to the taste of their 
countrjTnen. They would see that the 
events and pursuits which chequer private 
hii; were the proper subjects for popular 
poetry. Love, which had formerly held a 
divided sway with glory and ambition, be- 
came now the master passion of the soul. 
To portray in lively and delicate colours, 
though with a hasty hand, the hopes and 
fears that agitate the breast of the love-sick 
8W»in, or forlorn maiden, affords ample scope 
to the rural poet. Love-songs of which 
TibuUus himself would not have been 
ashamed, might be composed by an unedu- 
cated rustic with a slight tincture of letters; 
01 if in these songs the character of the 



rustic be sometimes assumed, the truth ol 
character, and the language of nature, are 
preserved. With imaflected simplicity and 
tenderness, topics are urged most likely to 
soften the heart of a cruel and coy mistress, 
or to regain a tickle lover. Even in such aa 
are of a melancholy cast, a ray of hope 
breaks through, and dispels the deep and 
settled gloom which characterises the sweet- 
est of the Highland lueitiys, or vocal airs. 
Nor are these songs all plaintive; many of 
them are lively and humorous, and some 
appear to us coarse and indelicate. They 
seem, however, genuine descriptions of the 
manners of an energetic and sequestered 
people in their hours of mirth and festivity, 
though in their portraits some objects are 
brought into open view, which more fasti- 
dious painters would have thrown into 
shade. 

As those rural poets sang for amusement, 
not for gain, their eflusions seldom exceeded 
a love-song, or a ballad of satire or humour, 
which, like the works of the elder minstrels, 
were seldom committed to writing, but 
treasured up in the memory of their friends 
and neighbours. Neither known to the 
learned nor patronised by the great, these 
rustic bards lived and died in obscurity ; and 
by a strange fatality, their story, and even 
their very names, have been forgotten. (123) 
When proper models for pastoral songs were 
produced, there would be no want of imita- 
tors. To succeed in this species of compo- 
sition, soundness of und^-stauding, and 
sensibility of heart, were more requisite than 
flights of imagination or pomp of numbers. 
Great changes have certainly taken place in 
Scottish song-writing, thougii we cannot 
trace the steps of this change ; and few of 
the pieces admired in Queen Mary's time 
are now to be discovered in modern collec- 
tions. It is possible, though not probable, 
that the music may have remained nearly 
the same, though the words to the tunes 
were entirely new-modelled." tl~^J 

These conjectures are iiighly ingenious. 
It cannot, however, be presumed, that the 
state of ease and tranquillity described by 
Mr. Ramsay, took place among the Scottish 
l)easantry immediately on the union of the 
crowns, or indeed during the greater part of 
the seventeenth century. The Scottish 
nation, through all its ranks, was deeply 
agitated by the civil wars, and the religious 
persecutions which succeeded each other in 
that disastrous period ; it was not till after 
the revolution in 1688, and the subsequent 
establishment of their beloved form of 
church government, that the peasantry of 



COMPARISON OF SCOTTISH POETS. 



75 



the Lowlands enjnyed comparati\e repose ; 
and it is since that period that a jfreat 
number of the most admired Scottish songs 
have been produced, tliouijh the tunes to 
which they are snug are in general of much 
greater antiquity. It i' not unreasonable to 
suppose that the paace aad security derived 
from tlie Revolution and the Union, pro- 
duced a favourable change on the rustic 
poetry of Scotland ; and it can scarcely be 
doubted, that the institution of parish 
schools in 1090, by which a certain degree 
of instruction was diffused universally among 
the peasantry, contributed to this happy 
effect. 

Soon after this appeared Allan Bamsay, 
the Scottisli Theocritus. He was born on 
the high mountains that divide Clydesdale 
and Annandale, in a small hamlet by the 
banks of Glengonar, a stream which descends 
into the Clyde. The ruins of this hamlet 
are still shown to the inquiring traveller. 
He was the son of a peasant, and probably 
received such instruction as his parish-school 
bestowed, and the poverty of his parents ad- 
mitted. (125) Ramsay made his appearance 
in Edinburgh in the beginmng of the present 
century, in the h\;mble character of an ap- 
prentice to a barber, or peruke-maker ; he 
was then fourteen or fifteen years of age. 
By degrees he acquired notice for his social 
disposition, and his talent for the composi- 
tion of verses in the Scottish idiom; and, 
changing his profession for that of a book- 
seller, he became intimate with many of the 
literary, as well as the gay and fashionable 
characters of his time. (126) Having pub- 
lished a volume of poems of his own in 
1721, which was favourably received, he 
undertook to make a collection (,f ancient 
Scottish poems, under the title of The Ever- 
green, and was afterwards encouraged to 
present to the world a collection of Scottish 
songs. " From what sources he procured 
them," says Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, 
"whether from tradition or manuscript, is 
uncertain. As in the Evergreen, he made 
some rash attempts to improve on the origi- 
nals of his ancient poems, he probably used 
still greater freedom with the songs and 
ballads. The truth cannot, however, be 
known on this point, till manuscripts of the 
songs printed by him more ancient than the 
present century, shall be produced, or access 
be obtained to his own papers, if they are 
still in existence. To several tunes which 
cither wanted words, or had words that 
were improper or imperfect, he, or his 
friends, adapted verses worthy of the melo- 
dies they accompanied, worthy indeed of the 

8 



golden age. These verses were perfectly in- 
telligible to every rustic, yet justly admired 
by persons of taste, who regarded them a* 
the genuine offspring of the pastoral muse. 
In some respects, Ramsay had advantages 
not possessed by poets writing in the Scot- 
tish dialect in our days. Songs in the dialect 
of Cumberland or Ijancashire could never be 
popular, because these dialects have never 
been spoken by persons of fashion. But 
till the middle of the present century, every 
Scotsman, from the peer to the peasant, 
spoke a truly Doric language. It is true, 
the English moralists and poets were by 
this time read by every person of condition, 
and considered as the standards for polite 
composition. But as national prejudices 
were still strong, the busy, the learned, the 
gay, and the fair, continued to speak their 
native dialect, and that with an elegance 
and poignancy, of which Scotsmen of the 
present day can have no just notion. I am 
old enough to have conversed with Mr. 
Spittal, of Leuchat, a scholar and a man of 
fashion, who survived all the members of 
the Union Parliament, in which he had a 
seat. His pronunciation and phraseology 
differed as much from the common dialect, 
as the language of St. James's from that of 
Thames Street. Had we retained a court 
and parliament of our own, the tongues of 
the two sister-kingdoms would indeed have 
ditTered like the Castilian and Portuguese ; 
but each would have had its own classics, 
not in a single branch, but in the whole 
circle of literature. 

" Ramsay associated with the men of wit 
and fashion of his day, and several of them 
attempted to write poetry in his manner. 
Persons too idle or too dissipated to think of 
compositions that required much exertion, 
succeeded very happily in making tender 
sonnets to favourite tunes in compliment to 
their mistresses, and, transforming them- 
selves into impassioned shepherds, caught 
the language of the characters they assumed. 
Thus, about the year 1731, Robert Crawford 
of Auchinames wrote the modern song of 
Tweed Side (127), which has been so much 
admired. In 1743, Sir Gilbert Elliot, the 
first of our lawyers who both spoke and 
wrote English elegantly, composed, in the 
character of a love-sick swain, a beautiful 
song, beginning, ' My sheep I neglected, I 
lost my sheep-hook,' on the marriage of 
his mistress, Miss Forbes, witli lionald 
Crawford. And about twelve years after- 
wards, the sister of Sir Gilbert wrote the 
ancient words to the tune of the Flowers of 
the Forest (128), and supposed to allude to 



76 



LIFE or" BURXS. 



the battle of Flowden. lu spite of the 
double rhyme, it is a sweet, and, though 
in some parts allegorical, a natural expres- 
sion of national sorrow The more modern 
words to the same tune, beginning;, ' I have 
seen the smiling of fortune beguiling,' were 
written long before by Mrs. Cockburn, a 
woman of great wit, who outlived all the 
tirst group of literati of the present century, 
all of whom were very fond of her. (129) I 
was delighted with her company, though, 
when I saw her, she was very old. Much 
did she know that is now lost." 

In addition to these instances of Scottish 
songs produced' in the earlier part o/ the 
present century, may be mentioned the 
ballad of Hardiknute, by Lady Wardlaw; 
the ballad of WiUiam and Margaret ; and 
the song entitled the Birks of Endermay, 
by Mallett ; the love-song, beginning. " For 
ever fortune, wilt thou prove," produced by 
the youthful muse of Thomson; and the 
exquisite pathetic ballad, the Braes of 
Yarrow, by Hamilton of Bangour. On the 
revival of letters in Scotland, subsequent to 
the Union, a very general taste seems to 
have prevailed for the national songs and 
music. " For many years," says Mr. Ram- 
say, "the singing of songs was the great 
delight of the higher and middle order of 
the people, as well as of the peasantry ; 
and though a taste for Italian music has 
interfered with this amusement, it is still 
very prevalent. Between forty and fifty 
years ago, the common people were not only 
exceedingly fond of songs and ballads, but 
of metrical history. Often have I, in my 
cheerful morn of youth, listened to them 
with delight, when reading or reciting the 
exploits of Wallace and Bruce against the 
s.iuthrons. Lord Hailes was wont to call 
Blind Harry their bible, he being their great 
favourite next to the Scriptures. \Mien, 
therefore, one in the vale of life felt the first 
emotions of genius, he wanted not models 
gui generis. But though the seeds of 
poetry were scattered with a plentiful hand 
among the Scottish peasantry, the product 
was probably like that of pears and apples — 
of a thousand that spring up, nine hundred 
and fifty are so bad as to set the teeth on 
edge ; forty-five or more are passable and 
useful ; and the rest of an exquisite flavour. 
Allan Ramsay and Burns are wildings of 
this last description. They had the ex- 
ample of the elder Scottish poets ; they were 
not without the aid of the best English 
writers ; and, what was still of more im- 
portance, they were no strangers to the 
book of nature, and to the book of God." 



"From this general view, it is apparent 
that Allan Ramsay may be considered as in 
a great measure the reviver of the rural 
poetry of his country. His coUectiou of 
ancient Scottish poems, under the name of 
The Evergreen, his collection of Scottish 
songs, and his own poems, the principal of 
which is the Gentle Shepherd, have been 
universally read among the peasantry of his 
country, and have in some degree superseded 
the adventures of Bruce and \\^allace, 08 
recorded by Baibour and Blind Harry. 
Burns was well acquainted with all these. 
He had also before him the poems of 
Fcrgusson in the Scottish dialect, which 
have been produced in our own times, and 
of which it will be necessary to give a short 
account. 

"Fergusson was born of parents who had 
it in their power to procure him a liberal 
education — a circumstance, however, which 
in Scotland implies no very high rank in 
society. From a well-written and appa- 
rently authentic account of his life (130), 
we learn that he spent six years at the 
schools of Edinburgh and Dundee, and 
several years at the vuiiversities of Edin- 
burgh and St. Andrews. It appears tliat 
he was at one time destined for the Scottith 
church ; but, as he advanced towards man- 
hood, he renounced that intention, and 
at Edinburgh entered the office of a writer 
to the signet — a title which designates a 
separate and higher order of Scottish at- 
tornies. Fergusson had sensibility of mind, 
a warm and generous heart, and talents 
for society of the most attractive kind. 
To such a man no situation could be 
more dangerous than that in which he was 
placed. The excesses into which he was led 
impaired his feeble constitution, and he sank 
under them in the month of October, 1 774 
in his twenty-third or twenty-fourth year. 
Burns was not acquainted vvitli the poeins 
of this youthful genius when he himself 
begar, to write poetry ; and when he first 
saw them, he had renounced the muses. 
But while he resided in the town of Irvine, 
meeting with Fergusson's Scottish Foem^, he 
informs us that he "strung his lyre anew with 
emulati:ig vigour." Touched by the sympa- 
thy originating in kindred genius, and in the 
forebodings of similar fortune, Burns re- 
garded Fergusson with a partial and an 
affectionate admiration. Over his grave he 
erected a monument, as lias aheady been 
mentioned; and his poems he lia*. in several 
instances, made the subjects of his iniMri ii. 

From this account of the ^^ci'ii-i ■ h 

known to Burns, those uhu ;ii\' ac. ,h.j a ril 



SCOTTISH LITERATURE. 



77 



with thern will see that they are cliiefly 
humorous or pathetic, and under one or 
Other of tliese descriptions most of his own 
poems will class. Let us compare hira with 
his predecessors under each of these points 
of view, and close our examination with a 
few general observations. 

It has frequently been observed, that 
Scotland has produced, comparatively speak- 
uig:, few writers who have excelled in liumour. 
But this observation is true only when ap- 
plied to those who have continued to ri;side 
in their own country, and have confined 
themselves to composition in pure English ; 
and, in these circumstances, it admits of an 
easy explanation. The Scottish poets who 
have written in the dialect of Scotland, have 
been at all times remarkable for dwelling on 
subjects of humour, in which, indeed, imany 
of them have excelled. It would be ezsy to 
show, that the dialect of Scotland having 
become provincial, is now scarcely suif;ed to 
the more elevated kinds of poetry. If we 
may believe that the poem of Clu-istis Kirk 
of the Grene was written by James I. of 
Scotland (lol), this accomplished monarch, 
who had received an English education 
under the direction of Henry IV., and who 
bore arms under his gallant successor, gave 
the model on which the greater part of the 
humorous productions of the rustic muse of 
Scotland has been formed. Christis Kirk 
of the Grene was reprinted by Ramsay 
somewhat modernised in the orthography, 
and two cantos wire added by him, in which 
he attempts to carry on the design. Hence 
the poem of King Jaiues is usually printed 
in Ramsay's works. The royal bard describes, 
in the first canto, a rustic dance, and after- 
wards a contention in archery, ending in an 
affray. Ramsay relates the restoration of 
concord, and the renewal of the rural sports, 
with the humours of a country wedding. 
Though each of the poets describes the 
manners of his respective age, yet in the 
whole piece there is a very sufficient unifor- 
mity — a striking proof of the identity of 
character in the Scottish peasantry at the 
two periods, distant from each other three 
hundred years. It is an honourable dis- 
tinction to this body of men, that their 
character and manners, very little embel- 
hshed, have been found to be susceptible of 
on amusing and interesting species of poetry; 
and it must appear not a httle curious, that 
the single nation of modern Europe which 
possesses an original rural poetry, shoidd 
have received the model, followed by their 
rustic bards, from the monarch on the 
thr'ine. 



The two additional cantos to Christis Kirk 
of the Grene, written by Ramsay, though 
objectionable in point of delicacy, are among 
the happiest of his productions. His chief 
excellence, indeed, lay in the description of 
rural characters, incidents, and scenery ; for 
he did not possess any very high powers 
either of imagination or of understanding. 
He was well acquainted with the peasantry 
of Scotland, their lives and opinions. Tlie 
subject was in a great measure new ; his 
talents were equal to the subject ; and he 
has shown that it may be happily adapted to 
pastoral poetry. In his Gentle Shepherd, 
the characters are delineations from nature, 
the descriptive parts are in the genuine style 
of beautiful simplicity, the passions and 
affections of rural life are finely pourtrayed, 
and the heart is pleasingly interested in the 
happiness that is bestowed on innocence and 
virtue. Throughout the whole there is an 
air of reality which the most careless reader 
cannot but perceive ; and, in fact, no poem 
ever perhaps acquired so high a reputation, 
in which truth received so httle embellish- 
ment from the imagination. In his pastoral 
songs, and in his rural tales, Ramsay appears 
to less advantage indeed, but still with con- 
siderable attraction. The story of the ]\Ionk 
and the Miller's Wife, though somewhat 
licentious, may rank with the happiest pro- 
ductions of Prior, or La Fontaine. But when 
he attempts subjects from higher life, and 
aims at pure English composition, he is 
feeble and uninteresting, and seldom ever 
reaches mediocrity. Neither are his familiar 
epistles and elegies in the Scottish dialect 
entitled to much approbation. Though 
Fergusson had higher powers of imagination 
than Ramsay, his genius was not of the 
highest order ; nor did his learning, which 
was considerable, improve his genius. His 
poems written in pure English, in which he 
often follows classical models, though supe- 
rior to the English poems of Ramsay, seldom 
rise above mediocrity ; but in those com- 
posed in the Scottish dialect he is often very 
successful. He was in general, however, 
less happy than Ramsay in the subjects of 
his muse. As he spent the greater part of 
his life in Edinburgh, and wrote for his 
amusement in the intervals of business or 
dissipation, his Scottish poems are chiefly 
founded on the incidents of a town life, 
which, though they are susceptibleof humour, 
do not admit of those delineations of scenery 
and manners, which vivify the rural poetry 
of Ramsay, and which so agreeably amuse 
the fancy and interest the heart. The 
town-cclognes of Fergusson, if we may so 



78 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



denominate them, are, however, faithful to 
aature, and often distinguished by a very 
happy vein of humour. His poems entitled 
'J'he Daft Days, Tlie King's Birth-day in 
Edinburgh, Leith Races, and the Hallow 
Fair, will justify this character. In these, 
particularly in the last, he imitated Christis 
Kirk of the Grene, as Ramsay had done 
before him. His Address to the Tron Kirk 
Dell is an exquisite piece of humour, which 
Burns has scarcely excelled. In appreciating 
the genms of Fergusson, it ought to be 
recollected, that his poems are the careless 
effusions of an irregular though amiable 
young man, who WTOte for the periodical 
papers of the day, and who died in early 
youth. Had his life been prolonged under 
happier circumstances of fortune, he would 
probably have risen to much higher reputa- 
tion. He might have excelled in rural poetry ; 
for though his professed pastorals, on the 
established Sicilian model, are stale and 
uninteresting. The Farmer's Ingle (132), 
which may be considered as a Scottish pas- 
toral, is the happiest of all his productions, 
and certainly was the prototype of the Cot- 
ter's Saturday Night. Fergusson, and more 
especially Burns, have shown that the cha- 
racter and manners of the peasantry of 
Scotland of the present times, are as well 
adapted to poetry as in the days of Ramsay, 
or of the author of Christis Kirk of the 
Grene. 

'1 he humour of Burns is of a richer vein 
than that of Ramsay or Fergusnon, both of 
whom, as he himself informs us, he had 
"frequently in his eye, but rather with a 
view to kindle at their flame, than to servile 
imitation." His descriptive powers, whether 
the objects on which they are employed be 
coraic or serious, animate or inanimate, are 
of the highest order. A superiority of 
this kind is essential to every species of 
poetical excellence. In one of his earlier 
poems, his plan seems to be to inculcate 
a lesson of contentment on the lower 
classes of society, by showing that their 
superiors are neither much better nor 
happier than themselves ; and this he 
chooses to execute in the form of a dialogue 
between two dogs. He introduces this 
dialogue by an account of the persons and 
characters of the speakers. The first, whom 
he has named Cjesar, is a dog of con- 
dition: — 

"Ilis locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, 
Sliow'd him the gentleman and scholar." 

High- bred though he is, he is, however, fuU 
of condescension : — 



" At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tlio' e'er so duddie. 
But he wad stan't, as glad to see hiin, 
Andstroan't on sta?tes and hillocks wV him.'* 

The other, Luath, is a " ploughman's collie," 
but a cur of a good heart and a sound un- 
derstanding. 

" His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place 
His breast was white, his towsie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gaucie tail, ivV upward curl, 
Hu)ig o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl." 

Never were tioa ilofjs so exquisitely deli- 
neated. Their gambols before they sit down 
to moralise are described with an equal de- 
gree of happiness ; and through the whole 
dialogue, the character, as well as the dif- 
ferent condition of the two speakers, is kept 
in view. The speech of Luath, in which he 
enumerates the comforts of the poor, gives 
the following account of their merriment oa 
the first day of the year : — 
"That merry day the year begins. 
They bar the door on frosty win's ; 
The nai)py recks wi' mantling ream, 
And sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The luntin pipe, and snccshinniill. 
Are handed round wi' right guid will; 
The canty auld folks crackin crouse. 
The young ancs rantin thro' the house — 
]Sly heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit ivi' them." 

Of all the animals who have moralised on 
human affairs since the days of ^Esop, the 
dog seems best entitled to this privileee, as 
well from his superior sagacity as from his 
being, more than any other, the friend and 
associate of man. The dogs of Burns, ex- 
cepting in their talent for moralising, are 
downright dogs ; and not like the horses of 
Swift, or the Hind pnd Panther of Dryden, 
men in the shape of brutes. It is this cir- 
cumstance that heightens the humour of the 
dialogue. The " twa dogs" are constantly 
kept before our eyes, and the contrast be- 
tween their form and character as dogs, and 
the sagacity of their conversation, heightens 
the humour, and deepens the impression of 
the poet's satire. Though in this poem the 
chief excellence may be considered as hu- 
mour, yet great talents are displayed in its 
composition ; the happiest powers of de- 
scription, and the deepest insight into the 
human heart. (133) It is seldom, however, 
that the humour of Bums appears in so 
simple a form. The liveliness of his sensi- 
bility frequently impels him to introduce 
into subjects of humour emotions of ten- 
derness or of pity ; and, wliere occasion 
admits, he is sometimes carried on to exert 



SCOTTISH LITERATURE. 



79 



the hi<r1i?r powers of ima«^ination. In such 
iti'itatices, he leaves the society of Kamsay 
and of Fer^isson, and associates himself 
with the masters of Eiifclish poetry, whose 
lanffiiaffc he frequently assumes. 

Of the union of tenderness and humour, 
examples may be found in The Death and 
Dying Words of poor Mailie, in The Auld 
Farmer's New- Year's Morning Salutation 
to his Mare Jlaggie, and in many of his 
other poems. The praise of whisky is a 
favourite subject with Burns. To this he 
dedicates his poem of Scotch Drink. After 
mentioning its cheering influence in a va- 
riety of situations, he describes, with singular 
liveliness and power of fancy, its stimulating 
effects on the blacksmith working at his 
forge : — 

" Nae mercy, then, for aim and stcol ; 

The brawnie, bainie, plouijman chiol. 

Brings hard owre-hip, wi' sturdy wheel, 
The strong fore-hammer, 

Till block and studdie ring and reel 
Wi' ilinsome clamour." 

On another occasion (134), choosing to 
exalt whisky above wine, he introduces a 
comparison between the natives of more 
genial climes, to whom the vine furnishes 
their beverage, and his own countrymen who 
drink the spirit of malt. The description of 
the Scotsman is humorous : — 

" But bring a Scotsman frae his hill. 
Clap in his check a Iliuh'and "ill (135), 
Say such is royal George's will, 

And there's the foe, 
He has nae thought but how to kill 
Twa at a blow." 

Here the notion of danger rouses ^the 
imagination of the poet. He goes on 
thus : — 
" Nae cauld, faint-hearted doublings teaze 

him ; 
Death comes — wi' fearless eye he sees him, 
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gics him ; 

.\nd when he fa's, 
His latest drauglit o' breathing lea'es him 
In faint huzzas." 
Again, however, he sinks into humour, 
and concludes the poem with the following 
most laughable but most irreverent apos- 
trephe :^ 

" Scotland, my auld, respected mither ! 
Tho' whyles ye moistify your leather. 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather. 

Ye tine your dam : 
Freedom and irhiskct/ gang thcgithcr — 

Tak atf your dram ! " 

Of this union of humour with the higher 
powers of imagination, instances may be 
found in the poem entitled Death and Dr. 
Hornbook, and in almost every stauza of 



the Address to the Deil, one of the happiest 
of his productions. After r 'proachiug this 
terrible being with all his " doiiigs" ami 
misdeeds, in the course of which he passes 
through a series of Scottish superstitions, 
and rises at times into a high strain of 
poetry, he concludes this address, delivered 
in a tone of great familiarity, not altogether 
unmixed with apprehension, in the following 
words : — 

" But, fare-ye-well, auld Nickie-bcn ! 

Oh wad you tak a thought and niea'l 

Ye aiblins might— I dinna ken- 
Sill hae a stake — 

I'm wae to think upon yon don 

E'en for your ;-ake I " 

Humour and tenderness are here so happily 
intermixed, that it is impossible to say which 
preponderates. 

Fergusson wrote a dialogue between the 
Causeway and the Plainstones (136) of 
Edinburgh. This probably suggested to 
Burns his dialogue between the Old and 
the New Bridge over the river Ayr. (137) 
The iiature of such subjects rpq\iires that 
they shall be treated humorously, and Fer- 
gusson has attempted nothing beyond this. 
Though the Causeway and the Plainstones 
talk together, no attempt is made to per- 
sonify the speakers. A "cadie" (138) heard 
the conversation, and reported it to the 
poet. 

In the dialogues between the Brigs of 
Ayr, Burns himself is the auditor, and the 
time and occasion on which it occurred is 
related with great circumstantiality. The 
poet, " pressed by care," or " inspired by 
whim," had left his bed in the town of Ayr, 
and wandered out alone in the darkness and 
solitude of a winter-night, to the mouth of 
the river, where the stillness was interrupted 
only by the rushing sound of the influx of 
the tide. It was after midnight. The duu- 
geon-clock (139) had struck two, and the 
sound had been repeated by "t^'allace Tower. 
(140) All else was hushed. The moon 
shone brightly, and 

" Tho chilly frost, beneath the silver beam. 
Crept gently crusting, o'er the glittering 
stream." 

In this situation the listening bard hears the 
"clanging sugh" of wings moving tbrouirh 
the air, and speedily he perceives two beings 
reared, the one on the Old, the other on the 
New Britlge, whose form and attire he de- 
scritjcs, and whose conversation with each 
otlicr he rehearses. These genii enter into 
a comparison of the respective edifices over 
which they preside, and afterwards, as is 
usual between the old and young, compare 



'^- 



80 



LIFE OP BURNS. 



iiKulerii characters and manners with tliose 
of i)ast times. 'I'hey ditt'er, as may be ex- 
pected, and taunt and scold each otlier in 
broad Scotch. This conversation, wliich is 
certainly humorous, may be considered as 
the proper business of the poem. As the 
debate runs higli, and threatens serious con- 
sequences, all at once it is interrupted by a 
new scene of wonders : — 

' all before their sight 



A fairy train appear'd in order brigrht ; 
Adown the glittering stream they featly 
diinc'd ; [glanc'd ; 

Bright to the moon their various dresses 
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 
'J'he infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet; 
While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung, 
And soul-enobling Bards heroic ditties sung." 
» • * « 

" The Genius of the Stream in front appears — 
A venerable chief, advanc'd in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter-tangle bound." 

Next follow a number of other allegorical 
beings, among whom are the four seasons. 
Rural Joy, Plenty, Hospitality, and Cou- 
rage. 

" Benevolence, with mild beni.!;nant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair ; 
Learning and wealth in equal measures trode, 
From simjile Catrine, their long-lcv'd abode; 
Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel- 
wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of Death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their 
kind'ling wrath." 

lliis poem, irregular and imperfect as it 
is, displays various and powerful talents, and 
may serve to illustrate the genius of Burns. 
In particular, it affords a striking instance of 
his being carried beyond his original purpose 
by the powers of imagination. 

In Fergusson's poem, the Plainstones and 
Causeway contrast the characters of the 
different persons who walked upon them. 
Burns probably conceived, that by a dialogue 
between the Old and New Bridge, he might 
form a humorous contrast between ancient 
and modern manners in the town of Ayr. 
Such a dialogue could only be supposed to 
pass in the stillness of night ; and this led 
our poet into a description of a midnight 
scene, which excited in a high degree the 
powers of his imagination. During the 
whole dialogue the scenery is present to his 
fancy, and at length it suggests to him a 
fairy dance of aerial beings, under the beams 
of the moon, by which the wrath of the 
Genii of the Brigs of Ayr is appeased. 

Incongruous as the different parts of this 
poem are, it is not an incongruity that dis- 



pleases ; and we have only to regret tliat tht 
poet did not bestow a little pains in raakinj» 
the figures more correct, and in smoothing 
the versification. 

The epistles of Burns, in which may be 
included his Dedication to G. H., Esq., dis- 
cover, like his other writings, the powers of 
a superior understanding. They display 
deep insight into liuniaii nature, a gay and 
hap])y strain of reflection, great independ- 
ence of sentiment and generosity of heart. 
It is to be regretted, that, in liis Holy Fair, 
and in some of his other poems, his humour 
degenerates into personal satire, and that it 
is not sufficiently guarded in other respects. 
The Halloween of Burns is free from every 
objection of this sort. It is interesting, not 
merely from its humorous description of 
manners, but as it records the spells and 
charms used on the celebration of a festival, 
now even in Scotland, falling into neglect, 
but which was once observed over the greater 
part of Britain and Ireland. (141) These 
charms are supposed to afford an insight 
into futurity, especially on the subject of 
marriage, the most interesting event of rural 
life. In the Halloween, a female, in per- 
forming one of the spells, has occasion to go 
out by moonlight to dip her shift-sleeve into 
a stream running toioanh Ike south. It was 
not necessary for Burns to give a description 
of this stream. But it was the character of 
his ardent mind to pour forth not merely 
what the occasion required, but what is ad- 
mitted ; and the temptation to describe so 
beautiful a natural object by moonlight, was 
not to be resisted — 

" JVhyles owre a linn the burnie plays, 
As through the glen it wimpl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays ; 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't; 
Whyles glitter'd tc the nightly rays, 

AVi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath the braes. 
Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night." 

Those who understand the Scottish dia- 
lect will allow this to be one of the finest 
instances of description which the records of 
poetry afford. (142) Though of a very different 
nature, it may be compared, in point of ex- 
cellence, with Thomson's description of a 
river swoollen by the rains of winter, burst- 
ing through the streights that confine its 
torrent, " boihng, wheeling, foaming, and 
thundering along." 

In pastoral, or, to speak more correctly, 
in rural poetry of a serious nature, Burns 
excelled equally as in that of a humorous 
kind ; and, u«ing less of the Scottish dialect 



SENSIBILITY OP BURNS. 



81 



m his sennus poems, he becomes more pe- 
nsrally intellifrible. It is difficult to decide 
whether the Address to a blouse, whose nest 
was turned up with the plough, should be 
considered as serious or comic. Be this as 
it may, the poem is one of the happiest and 
most finished of his productions. If we 
smile at the " bickering brattle" of this little 
flying animal, it is a smile of tenderness 
and pity. The descriptive part is admirable ; 
the moral reflections beautiful, and arising 
directly out of the occasion ; and in the con- 
clusion there is a deep melancholy, a sen- 
timent of doubt and dread, that rises to 
the sublime. Tiie address to a Mountain 
Daisy, turned down with the plough, is a 
poem of the same nature, though somewhat 
inferior in point of originality, as well as in 
the interest produced. To extract out of 
incidents so common, and seemingly so tri- 
vial as these, so fine a train of sentiment 
and imagery, is the surest proof, as well as 
the most brilhant triumph, of original ge- 
nius. The vision, in two cantos, from which 
a beautiful extract is taken by Mr. jMackenzie, 
m the n7th nimiber of The Lounger, is a 
poem of fi-reat and various excellence. The 
opening, in which the poet describes his own 
state of mind, retiring in the evening, wea- 
ried from the labours of the day, to moralise 
on his conduct and prospects, is truly 
interesting. The chamber, if we may so 
term it, in which he sits down to muse, is 
an exquisite painting : 
•• There, lanely, by the ingle cheek 
I s;it .iiul ey'd tlie spewing- reek, 
That filled wi' hoast-provokincr smeek 

The auki clay biggin ; 
And heard the restless rations squeak 
About the riggin." 

To reconcile to our imagination the en- 
trance of an aerial being into a mansion of this 
kind, required the powers of Burns — he 
however succeeds. Coila enters, and her 
countenance, attitude, and dress, unlike 
those of other spiritual beings, are distinctly 
pourtraycd. To the painting on her mantle, 
on which is depicted the most striking 
scenery, as well as the most distinguished 
characters, of his native coimtrry, some ex- 
ceptions may be made. Tlie mantle of Coila, 
like the cup of Thyrsis, and the shield of 
Achilles, is too much crowded with figures, 
and some of the objects represented upon 
it are scarcely admissible, according to the 
principles of design. The generous tem- 
perament of Burns led him into these 
exuberances. In his second edition he en- 
larged the number of figures originally 
iutioduced, that he might uiclude objects to 
o 



which he was attached by sentiments o* 
affection, gratitude, or patriotism. T\» 
second duan, or canto, of this poem, in 
which Coila describes her own nature and 
occupations, particularly her superinten- 
dence of his infant genius, and in which she 
reconciles him to the character of a bard, is 
an elevated and solemn strain of poetry, 
ranking in all respects, excepting the har- 
mony of numbers, with the higher produc- 
tions of the English muse. The concluding 
stanza, compared with that already quoted, 
will show to what a height Burns rises iu 
this poem, from the point at which he set 
out: — 

"And v^enr thott ?^i>— she solemn said, 
And bound the holly round my head ; 
The polished leaves, and berries red. 

Did rustling play : 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 
In light away." 

In various poems. Burns has exhibited 
the picture of a mind under the deep im- 
pressions of real sorrow. The Lament, the 
Ode to Ruin, Despondency, and Winter, a 
Dirge, are of this character. In the first of 
these poems, the 8th stanza, which describes 
a sleepless night from anguish of mind, is 
particularly striking. Burns often indulged 
in those melancholy views of the nature and 
condition of man, which are so congenial 
to the temperament of sensibihty. The 
poem entitled Alan was Made to Mourn, 
atfords an instance of this kind, and the 
Winter Night is of the same description. 
The last is highly characteristic, both of the 
temper of mind, and of the condition o' 
Burns. It begins with a description of a 
dreadftj storm on a night in winter. The 
poet represents himself as lying in bed, ai.d 
listening to its howling. In this situation 
he naturally turns his thoughts to the owrie 
(143) caitle, and silly (14-ij sheep, exposed 
to all the violence of the tempest. Having 
lamented their fate, he proceeds in the fol- 
lowing manner : — 

" Ilk happing bird— wee, helpless thing I 
That, in the nierrv months o' spring. 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What conies o' thee ? 
AVTiare wilt thou cow'r thy chitteriiig wing, 

And close thy ee J " 

Other reflections of the same nature 
occur to his mind ; and as the midnight 
moon " muffled with clouds " casts her 
dreary light on his window, thoughts of a 
darker and more melancholy nature crowrl 
upon him. In this state of mind, he hears 
a voice pouring through the gloom a solcmv 



82 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



and plaintive strain of reflection. The 
mourner compares the fury of the elements 
with that of man to his brother man, and 
finds the former light in the balance. 
" See stern Oppression's iron grip, 

Or mad Ambition's gory hand, 
Sending, like bloodhounds from the slip, 
Woe, want, and murder, o'er vhe land." 

He pursues this train of reflection 
through a variety of particulars, in the 
course of which he introduces the following 
animated apostrophe : — 

" Oh, ye ! who, sunk in beds of down. 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create. 
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, 

Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
lU-'^atisfied keen nature's clam'rous call, 

Stretch'd olf his straw he lays him down to 
sleep, 
While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, 

Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap." 

The strain of sentiment which runs 
through this poem is noble, though the exe- 
cution is unequal, and the versification is 
defective. 

Among the serious poems of Burns, The 
Cotter's Saturday Night is perhaps entitled 
to the first rank. The Farmer's Ingle of 
Fergusson evidently suggested the plan of 
this poem, as has been already mentioned ; 
but after the plan was formed, Burns trusted 
entirely to his own powers for the execution. 
Fergusson's poem is certainly very beautiful. 
It has all the charms which depend on rural 
characters and manners happily pourtrayed, 
and exhibited under circumstances highly 
grateful to the imagination. The Farmer's 
Ingle begins with describing the return of 
evening. The toils of the day are over, and 
the farmer retires to his comfortable fireside. 
The reception which he and his men-servants 
receive from the careful housewife, is pleas- 
ingly described. After their supper is over, 
they begin to talk ou the rural events of the 
day. 

•♦'Bout kirk and market eke their talesgaeon. 
How Jock woo'd Jcniui here to be his bride ; 

And there how Marion for a bastard son, 
Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride. 

The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide." 

The "guidame" is next introduced as 
forming a circle round the fire, in the midst 
of her grandchildren, and while she spins 
from the lock, and the spindle plays on her 
" russet lap," she is relating to the young 
ones tales of witches and ghosts. The poet 
exclaims, 

•*0h, mock na this, my friends! but rather 
mourn, 
Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear, 
VV'i' cild our idle fancies a' return, 



And dim our dolcfu' days wi' bairnly fear , 
The mind's aye cradled when the griii\' is 
near." 

In the meantime, the farmer, wearied with 
the fatigues of the day, stretches himself at 
length on the settle, a sort of rustic couch 
which extends on one side of the fire, and 
the cat and house-dog leap upon it to re- 
ceive his caresses. Here resting at his ease, 
he gives his directions to his men-servants 
for the succeeding day. The housewife 
follows his example, and gives her orders to 
the maidens. By degrees the oil in the 
cruise begins to fail, the fire runs low, sleep 
steals on this rustic group, and they move 
oft' to enjoy their peaceful slumbers. The 
poet concludes by bestowing his blessings 
ou the " husbandman and all his tribe." 
~ This is an original and truly interesting 
pastoral. It possesses every thing required 
in this species of composition. We might 
have perhaps said every thing that it admits, 
had not Burns written his Cotter's Saturday 
Night. 

The cottager returning from his labours, 
has no servants to accompany him, to 
partake of his fare, or to receive his instruc- 
tions. The circle which he joins, is com- 
posed of his wife and children only ; and if 
it admits of less variety, it alTords an oppor- 
tunity for representing scenes that more 
strongly interest the aifections. The 
younger children running to meet him, and 
clambering round his knee — the elder, re- 
turning from their weekly labours with the 
neighbouring farmers, dutifully depositing 
their little gains with their parents, and re- 
ceiving their father's blessing and instruc- 
tions — the incidents of the courtship of 
Jenny, their eldest daughter, " woman 
grown" — are circumstances of the most in- 
teresting kind, which are most happily de- 
lineated ; and after their frugal supper, the 
representation of these humble cottagers 
forming a wider circle round their hearth, 
and uniting in the worship of God, is a 
picture the most deeply affecting of any 
which the rural muse has ever presented to 
the view. Burns was admirably adapted to 
this delineation. Like all men of genius, 
he was of the temperament of devotion, 
and the powers of memory co-operated in 
this instance with the sensibility of his 
heart, and the fervour of his imagina- 
tion. (145) The Cotter's Saturday Night is 
tender and moral, it is solemn and devo- 
tional, and rises at length into a strain ut 
grandeur and sublimity, which modern 
poetry has not surpassed. The noble senti- 
ments of patriotism with which it con- 



BURNS'S ORIGINALITY. 



elndes, correspond with the rest of the 
j)oem. In no &2;e or country have the 
pastoral muses breathed such elevated 
iircents, if the Messiah of Pope be excepted, 
vvliich is indeed a pastoral in form only. It 
is to be regretted that Burns did not employ 
his genius on other subjects of the same 
nature, which the manners and customs of 
the Scottish peasantry would have amply 
supphed. Such poetry is not to be esti- 
mated by the degree of pleasure which it 
bestows ; it sinks deeply into the heart, and 
is calculated, far beyond any other human 
means, for giving permanence to the scenes 
and characters it so exquisitely describes. 

Before we conclude, it will be proper to 
offer a few observations on the lyric produc- 
tions of Burns. His compositions of this 
kind are chiefly songs, generally in the 
Scottish dialect, and always after the model 
of the Scottish songs, on the general cha- 
racter and moral influence of which some 
observations have already been offered. We 
may hazard a few more particular remarks. 

Of the historic or heroic ballads of Scot- 
land, it is unnecessary to speak. Burns has 
nowhere imitated them, a circumstance to be 
regretted, since in this species of composi- 
tion, from its admitting the more terrible as 
well as the softer graces of poetry, lie was 
eminently qualified to have excelled The 
Scottish songs which served as a model to 
Bums, are, almost without exception, pas- 
toral, or rather rural. Such of them as are 
comic, frequently treat of a rustic courtship 
or a country wedding ; or they describe the 
differences of opinion which arise in mar- 
ried life. Burns has imitated this species, 
and surpassed his models. The song, be- 
ghining, " Ilu.sband, husband, cease your 
strife," may be cited in support of this ob- 
servation. (146) His other comic songs 
are of equal merit. In the rural songs of 
Scotland, whether humorous or tender, the 
sentiments are given to particular characters, 
and very generally, the incidents are re- 
ferred to particular scenery. This last 
circumstance may be considered as the dis- 
tinguishing feature of the Scottish songs, 
and on it a considerable part of their attrac- 
tion depends. On all occasions the senti- 
ments, of whatever nature, are delivered in 
the character of the person principally in- 
terested. If love be described, it is not as 
it is observed, but as it is felt ; and the 
passion is delineated under a particular 
aspect. Neither is it the fiercer impulses of 
desire that are expressed, as in the celebrated 
ode of Sajjpho, the model of so many 
modern songs, but those gentler emotions of 



9 



tenderness and affection, which do not 
entirely absorb the lover, but permit hiin to 
associate his emotions with tlie charms of 
external nature, and breathe the accents ot 
purity and innocence, as well as of love. In 
these respects, the love-songs of Scotland 
are honorably distinguished from the most 
admired classical compositions of the same 
kind ; and by such associations, a variety, as 
well as liveliness, is given to the representa- 
tion of this passion, which are not to be 
found in the poetry of Greece or Rome, or 
perhaps of any other nation. Many of the 
love-songs of Scotland describe scenes of 
rural courtship; many may be considered 
as invocations from lovers to their mis- 
tresses. On such occasions a degree of in- 
terest and reality is given to the sentiments, 
by the spot destined to these happy inter- 
views being particularized. Tlie lovers 
perhaps meet at the Bush aboon Traquair, 
or on the banks of Ettrick ; the nymphs 
are invoked to wander among the wilds of 
Roslin, or the woods of Invermay. Nor is 
the spot merely pointed out ; the scenery is 
often described as well as the characters, so 
as to present a complete picture to the 
fancy. (147) Tlius the maxim of Horace ut 
pictura j)oesis, is faithfully observed by these 
rustic bards, who are guided by the sam(> 
impidse of nature and sensibility wh'ch in- 
fluenced the father of epic poetry, on whose 
example the precept of the Roman poet was 
perhaps founded. By this means the imagi- 
nation is employed to interest the feelings. 
When we do not conceive distinctly, we do 
not sympathise deeply in any human affec- 
tion ; and we conceive nothing in the ab- 
stract. Abstraction, so useful in morals, 
and so essential in science, must be aban- 
doned when the heart is to he subdued by 
the powers of poetry or of eloquence. The 
bards of a ruder condition of society paint 
individual objects; and hence, among other 
causes, the easy access they obtain to the 
heart. Generalization is the vice of poets 
whose learning overpowers their genius ; of 
poets of a refined and scientific age. 

The dramatic style which prevails so 
much in the Scottish songs, while it con- 
tributes greatly to the interest they excite, 
also shows that they have originated among 
a people in the earlier stiiges of society. 
Where this form of composition appears in 
songs of a modern date, it indicates that 
they have been written after the ancient 
model. (148) 

Tlie Scottish songs are of very unequal 
poetical merit, and this inequality often 
extends to the different parts of the same 



84 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



soHif. Those that are humorous, or cha- 
racteristic of manners, liave in general the 
merit of copynig nature ; tliose that are 
serious, are tender, and often sweetly 
interesting, but ssldom exhibit high powers 
of imaguiation, which indeed do not easily 
find a place in this species of composition. 
The aUiance of the words of the Scottish 
songs with the music, has in some instance 
given to the former a popularity, which 
otherwise they would not have obtained. 

Tlie association of the words and the 
music of these songs, with the more beau- 
tiful parts of the scenery of Scotland, 
contributes to the same effect. It has given 
thein not merely popularity, but perma- 
neni e ; it has imparted to the works of man 
some portion of the durability of the works 
of nature. If, from our imperfect ex- 
perience of the past, we may judge with 
any confidence respecting the future, songs 
of this description are of all others least 
hkely to die. In the changes of language 
they may no doubt suffer change ; but the 
associated strain of sentiment and of music 
will perhaps survive, while the clear stream 
sweeps down the vale of Yarrow, or the 
yellow broom waves on Cowden-Knowes. 

The first attempts of Burns in song- 
writing were not very successful. His 
habitual inattention to the exactness of 
rhymes, and to the harmony of numbers, 
arising probably from the models on which 
his versification was formed, were faults 
likely to appear to more disadvantage in 
this species of composition than in any 
other ; and we may also remark, that the 
strength of his imagination, and the 
exuberance of his sensibility, were with 
ditticulty restrained within the limits of 
gentleness, delicacy, and tenderness, which 
seemed to be assigned to the love-songs of 
his nation. Burns was better adapted by 
nature for following, in such compositions, 
the model of the Grecian than of the 
Scottish muse. By study and practice, he 
however surmounted all these obstacles. 
In his earlier songs, tliere is some rugged- 
ness, but this gradually disappears in his 
successive efforts ; and some of his later 
compositions of this kind may be compared, 
in polished delicacy, with the finest songs in 
our language, wliile in the eloquence of 
sensibility they surpass them all. 

The songs of Burns, like the models he 
followed and excelled, are often dramatic, 
and for the greater part amatory ; and the 
beauties of rural nature are everywhere 
associated with the passions and emotions 
of the mind. Disdaining to copy the works- 



of others, he has not, like some poets of 
great name, admitted into his descriptions 
exotic imagery. The landscapes he lias 
painted, and the objects with which they are 
embellished, are, in every single instance, 
such as are to be found in his own country. 
In a mountainous region, especially when it 
is comparatively rude and naked, the most 
beautiful scenery will always be found in the 
vallies, and on the banks of the wooded 
streams. Such scenery is peculiarly inter- 
esting at the close of a summer-day. As we 
advance northwards, the number of the days 
of summer, indeed diminishes ; but from 
this cause, as well as from the mildness of 
the temperature, the attraction of the 
season increases, and the summer night 
becomes still more beautiful. The greater 
obliquity of the sun's path on the ecliptic, 
prolongs the grateful season of twilight to 
the midnight hours ; and the shades of the 
evening seem to mingle with the morning's 
dawn. The rural poets of Scotland, as matjr 
be expected, associate in their songs the 
expressions of passion with the most 
beautiful of their scenery, in the fairest 
season of the year, and generally in those 
hours of the evening when the beauties of 
nature are most interesting. (149.) 

To all these adventitious circumstances, 
on which so much of the eftect of poetry 
depends, great attention is paid by Burns. 
There is scarcely a single song of his, in 
which particular scenery is not described, or 
allusions made to natural objects, remarkahle 
for beauty or interest ; and tliough his 
descriptions are not so full as are sometimes 
met with in the older Scottish songs, they 
are in the highest degree appropriate and 
interesting. Instances in proof of this 
might be quoted from the Lea Rig, High- 
land Mary, the Soldier's Keturn, Logaa 
Water ; from that beautiful pastoral, 
Bonnie Jean, and a great number of others. 
Occasionally the force of his genius carries 
him beyond the usual boundaries of Scottish 
song, and the natural objects introduced 
have more of the character of sublimity. An 
instance of this kind is noticed by Mr, 
Syme, and many others might be adduced : 

" Had 1 a cave on some wild distant shore. 
Where the winds howl to the wave's dashing 
roar ; 
There would I weep my woes. 
There seek my lost repose, 
Till grief my eyes should closc^ - 
Ne'er to wake more." 

In one song, the scene of which is laid m 
a winter night, the "wan moon" is des- 
cribed as " setting behind the white waves ;" 



REMARKS ON THE DIALECT. 



80 



in another, the "storms" are apostrophised, 
and commanded to "rest in the cave of 
their slumbers." On several occasions, the 
genius of Burns lost sight entirely of his 
archetypes, and rises into a strain of uniform 
sublimity. Instances of this kind appear in 
Libertie, a Vision ; and in his two war- 
songs, Bruce to his Troops, and the Song of 
Death. These last are of a description of 
which we have no other in our language. 
The martial songs of our nation are not 
military, but naval. If we were to seek a 
comparison of these songs of Burns with 
others of a similar nature, we must have 
recourse to the poetry of ancient Greece, or 
of modern Gaul. 

Burns has made an important addition to 
the songs of Scotland. In his compositions, 
the poetry equals and sometimes surpasses 
the music. He has enlarged the poetical 
scenery of his country, Jlauy of her rivers 
and mountains, formerly unknown to the 
muse, are now consecrated by his immortal 
verse. The Doon, the Lugar, the Ayr, the 
Kith, and the Cluden, will in future, like 
the Yarrow, the Tweed, and the Tay, be 
considered as classical streams, and their 
borders will be trodden with new and 
superior emotions. 

The greater part of the songs of Burns 
were written after he removed into the 
county of Dumfries. Influenced, perhaps, 
by habits formed in early life, he usually 
c.imposed while walking in the open air. 
AVhen engaged in writing these songs, his 
favourite walks were on the banks of the 
Nith, or of the Cluden, particularly near the 
ruins of Lincluden Abbey ; and this beauti- 
ful scenery he has very happily described 
under various aspects, as it appears during 
the softness and serenity of evening, and 
during the stillness and solemnity of the 
moonlight night. 

There is no species of poetry, the produc- 
tions of the drama not excepted, so much 
calcidated to influence the morals, as well as 
the happiness of a people, as those popular 
verses which are associated with national 
airs : and which being learnt in the years of 
infancy, make a deep impression on the 
heart before the evolution of the powers of 
the understanding. The compositions of 
Burns of this kind, now presented in a col- 
lected form to the world, make a most im- 
portant addition to the popular songs of his 
natiiii. Like all his other writings, they 
exhilut independence of sentiment; they are 
peculiarly calculated to increase those ties 
which bind generous hearts to their native 
toil, and to the domestic circle of their in- 



fancy ; and to cherish those sensibilities 
which, under due restriction, form tlie purest 
happiness of our nature. If in his unguarded 
moments he composed some songs on which 
this praise cannot be bestowed, let us hope 
that they wdl speedily be forgotten. In 
several instances where Scottish airs were 
allied to words objectionable in point of 
delicacy, Burns has substituted others of a 
purer character. On such occasions, without 
changing the subject, he has changed the 
sentiments. A proof of this may be seen in 
the air of John Anderson my Joe, which is 
now united to words that breathe a strain of 
conjugal tenderness, that is as highly moral 
as it is exquisitely aff'ecting. 

Few circumstances could aff"ord a more 
striking proof of the strength of Burns's 
genius, than the general circidation of his 
poems iu England, notwithstanding the 
dialect in which the greater part are written, 
and which might he supposed to render them 
here uncouth or obscure. In some instances 
he has used this dialect on subjects of a 
sublime nature ; but in general he confines 
it to sentiments or description of a tender 
or humorous kind ; and, where he rises nito 
elevation of thought, he ass\imes a purer 
English style. The singular faculty he pos- 
sessed of mingling in the same poem humo- 
rous sentiments and descriptions with unagery 
of a sublime and terrific nature, enabled him 
to use this variety of dialect on some occa- 
sions with striking effect. His poem of Tam 
o' Shanter aS'ords an instance of this. There 
he passes from a scene of the lowest humour 
to situations of the most awful and terrible 
kind. He is a musician that runs from the 
lowest to the highest of his keys ; and the 
use of the Scottish dialect enables him to 
add two additional notes to the bottom of 
his scale. 

Great efibrts have been made by the in- 
habitants of Scotland, of the superior ranks, 
to approximate in their speech to the pure 
English standard. Yet an Englishman who 
understands the meaning of the Scottish 
words, is not offended, nay, on certain subjects, 
he is, perhaps, pleased with the rustic dialect. 

But a Scotchman inhabiting his own 
country, if a man of education, and more 
especially if a literary character, has banished 
such words from his writings, and has at- 
tempted to banish them from his speech. 
A dislike of this kind is, however, ao 
cidental, not natural. It is of the species 
of disgust which we feel at seeing a female 
of high birth in the dress of a rustic ; 
which, if she be really young and beautiful, 
a little habit will enable us to overcome. A 



8n 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



hilly who assumes such a dress puts her j 
beauty, indeed, to a severer trial. She re- 
jects — she, indeed, opposes the influence of 
fashion ; she, possihly, abandons the grace 
of elegant and flowing drapery; but her 
native charms reinuiii, the more striking, 
perhaps, because the less adorned, and to 
these she trusts for fixing her empire on 
tliose affections over which fashion has no 
sway. If she succeeds, a new association 
arises. The dress of the beautiful rustic be- 
comes itself beautiful, and establishes a 
new fashion for the young and the gay. 
And when, in after ages, the contemplative 
observer shall view her picture in the gallery 
that contains the portraits of the beauties of 
successive centuries, each in the dress of her 
respective day, her drapery will not deviate, 
more than that of her rivals, from the 
standard of his taste, and he will give the 
palm to her who excels in the lineaments of 
nature. 

Burns wrote professedly for the peasantry 
of his country, and by them their native 
dialect is universally relished. To a nume- 
rous class of the natives of Scotland of another 
description, it may also be considered as 
attractive in a ditferent point of view. 
Estranged from their native soil, and spread 
over foreign lands, the idiom of their country 
unites with the seiitiinents and the descrip- 
tions on which it is employed, to recal to 
their minds the interesting scenes of infancy 
and youth — to awaken many pleasing, many 
tender recollections. Literary men, residing 
at Edinburgh or Aberdeen, cannot judge on 
this point for one hundred and tifty thousand 
of their expatriated countrymen. (150) 

To the use of the Scottish dialect in one 
species of poetry, the composition of songs, 
the taste of the public has been for some 
time reconciled. The dialect in question 
excels, as has already been observed, in the 
copiousness and exactness of its terms for 
natural objects ; and in pastoral or rural 
songs, it gives a Doric simplicity which is 
very generally approved. Ts'either does the 
regret seem well founded which some persons 
of taste have expressed, that Burns used this 
dialect in so many other of his compositions. 
His declared ])urpose was to paint the man- 
ners of rustic life among his " humble com- 
peers," and it is not easy to conceive, that 
this could have been done with equal humour 
and 'effect, if he had not adopted their idiom. 
There are some, indeed, who will think the 
subject too low for poetry. Persons of this 
sickly taste will find their delicacies consulted 



in many a polite and ]ea,-r.e('. author ; let 
them not seek for gratification in the rough 
and vigorous lines, in the unbridled humour, 
or in the overpowering uensibility of tliia 
bard of nature. 

To determine the comparative merit of 
Burns would be no easy task. Many per- 
sons, afterwards distinguished in literature, 
have been born in as lininble a situation of 
life ; but it would be difficult to find any 
other, who, while earning his subsistence by 
daily labour, has written verses which have 
attracted and retained universal attention, 
and which are likely to give the author a 
permanent and distinguished place among 
the followers of the muses. If he is deficient 
in grace, he is distinguished for ease as well 
as energy; and these are indications of the 
higher order of genius. The flither of epic 
poetry exhibits one of his heroes as excelling 
in strength, another in swiftness — to form 
his perfect warrior, these attributes are com- 
bined. Every species of intellectual supe- 
riority admits, perhaps, of a similar arrange- 
ment. One wTiter excels in force — another 
in ease; he is superior to them both, in 
whom both these qualities are united. Of 
Homer himself it may be said, that, like his 
own Achilles, he surpasses his competitors 
in mobility as well as strength. 

'^(he force of Burns lay in the powers of 
his understanding and in the sensibility of 
his heart ; and these will be found to infuse 
the living principle into all the works of 
genius which seem destined to immortality. 
His sensibility had an uncommon range. 
He was alive to every species ot emotion. 
He is one of the few poets that can be men- 
tioned, who have at once excelled in humour, 
in tenderness, and in sublimity ; a praise 
unknown to the ancients, and which in 
modern times is only due to Ariosto, to 
Shakspeare, and perhaps to Voltaire. To 
compare the writings of the Scottish peasants 
with the works of these giants in literature, 
might appear presumptuous ; yet it may be 
asserted that he has displayed the foot of 
Hercules. How near he might have ap- 
proached them by proper culture, with 
lengthened years, and under hajipier auspices, 
it is not for us to calculate. But while we 
run over the melancholy story of his life, it 
is impossible not to heave a sigh at the 
asperity of his fortune ; and as we survey 
the records of his mind, it is easy to see, 
that out of such materials have been reared 
the fairest and the most durable of the 
monuments of genius. 



LETTER FROM GILBERT BURNS TO DR. CURUIE. 



87 



^itrarts frnni Irtttrs. 



PROM GILBERT BURNS TO DR. CURRIE, 

respeciing the composition of his 
brother's poems. 

" Mossrjiel, 2nd April, 1793. 
"I CANNOT pretend to be very accurate in 
respect to the dates of the poems, but none 
of them, excepting Winter, a Dira^e (which 
was a juvenile production), The Death and 
Dying Words of poor Maihe, and some of 
the songs, were composed before the year 
1 784. 'I'he circumstances of the poor sheep 
were pretty much as lie has described them. 

" Among tlie earliest of his poems was 
the I'jpistle to Davie. Robert often com- 
posed without any regular plan. When 
anything made a strong impression on his 
mind, so as to rouse it to poetic exertion, he 
would give way to the impulse, and embody 
the thought in rhyme. If he hit on two or 
three stanzas to please hira, he would then 
think of proper introductory, connecting, 
and concludiiig stanzas; hence the middle of 
a poem was often lirst produced. It was, I 
think, in stuiimer 1784, when, in the interval 
of harder labour, he and I were weeding in 
the garden (kailyard), that he repeated to 
me the principal part of this epistle. I 
believe the first idea of Robert's becoming 
an author was started on this occasion. 1 
was much pleased with the epistle, and said 
to him I was of opinion it would bear being 
printed, and that it would be well received 
by people of taste; that I thought it at 
least equal, if not superior, to many of 
Allan Ramsay's epistles ; and that the merit 
of these, and much other Scotch poetry, 
seemed to consist principally in the knack 
of the expression, but here there was a train 
of interesting sentiment, and the Scotticism 
of the language scarcely seemed affected, 
but appeared to be the natural language of 
the poet : that, besides, there was certairdy 
some novelty in a poet pointing out the 
consolations that were in store for him when 
he should go a-begging. Robert seemed 
very well pleased with my criticism, and we 
talked of sending it to some magazine ; but 
as this plan afforded no opportunity of 
knowing how it would take, the idea was 
dropped. 

"It was, I think, in the winter following, 
as we were going together with carts for 



coal to the family fire (and I could j'et point 
out the particular spot), that the author 
first repeated to nie the Address to the 
Deil. The curious idea of such an address 
was suggested to him by running over in 
his mind the many ludicrous accounts and 
representations we have from various quar- 
ters of this august personage. Death and 
Doctor Hornbook, though not published in 
the Kilmarnock edition, was produced early 
in the year 1785. The schoolmaster of 
Tarbolton parish, to eke out the scanty sub- 
sistence allowed to that useful class of men, 
had set up a shop of grocery goods. Having 
accidentally fallen in with some medical 
books, and become most hobby-liorsically 
attached to the study of medicine, he had 
added the sale of a few metlicines to his 
little trade. He had got a shop-bill printed, 
at the bottom of which, overlooking his own 
incapacity, he had advertised that 'Advice 
would be given in common disorders at the 
shop gratis.' Robert was at a mason meet- 
ing in Tarbolton, when the dominie unfor- 
tunately made too ostentatious a display of 
his medical skill. As he parted in the 
evening from this mi,\ture of pedantry and 
physic, at the place where he describes his 
meeting with Death, one of those floating 
ideas of apparitions he mentions in his 
letter to Dr. Moore, crossed his mind ; this 
set him to work for the rest of the way 
home. These circumstances he related when 
he repeated the verses to me next afternoon, 
as 1 was holding the plough, and he was 
letting the water off the field beside me. 
The Epistle to John Lapraik was produced 
exactly on the occasion described by the 
author. He says in that poem, 'On Fasten 
e'en we had a rockin.' I believe he has 
omitted the word rocking in the glossary. 
It is a term derived from those primitive 
times, when the countrywomen employed 
their spare hours in spininng on the rock, or 
distaff. The simple implement is a very 
portable one, and well fitted to the social 
inclination of meeting in a neighbour's 
house ; hence the phrase of yoinr/ a-rockinrj, 
or ivith the rock. As the connection the 
phrase had with the implement was forgot- 
ten, when the rock gave place to the spin- 
ning-wheel, the phrase came to' be used by 
both sexes on social occasions, and men talk 
of going with their rocks as well as women. 
" It was at one of these rockings at our 



9* 



£8 



LIFE OP BURXS. 



lion«e, when we hid twelve or fifteen young 
people with their rocks, that Lajiraik's sony, 
i)ei;;iniiing— ' When I upon thy bosom lean,' 
was sung, and we were informed who was 
tlie author. Upon tliis, Robert wrote his 
first epistle .to Laipraik, and his second in 
reply to his answer. The verses to the 
Mouse and Mountain Daisy were composed 
on the occasions mentioned, and while the 
author was holding the plough ; I could 
point out the particular spot where each was 
composed. Holding the plough was a 
favourite situation with Robert for poetic 
composition, and some of his best verses 
were produced while he was at that exercise. 
Several of the poems were produced for the 
purpose of bringing forward some favourite 
sentiment of the author. Robert had fre- 
quently remarked to me that he thought 
there was something peculiarly venerable in 
the phrase, ' Let us worship God,' used by a 
decent, sober head of a family, introducing 
family worship. To this sentiment of the 
author the world is indebted for the Cotter's 
Saturday Night. When my brother had 
some pleasure in view, in which I was 
thought tit to participate, we used frequently 
to walk together, when the weather was 
favourable, on the Sunday afternoons (those 
precious breathing times to the labouring part 
of the community), and enjoyed such Sundays 
as would make one regret to see their niimber 
abridged. It was in one of these walks that 
I first had the pleasure of hearing the 
author repeat the Cotter's Saturday Night. 
I do not recollect to have read or heard any- 
thing by which I was more highly electrijicd. 
The fifth and sixth stanzas, and the eight- 
eenth, thrilled with peculiar ecstacy through 
my soul. I mention this to you, that you 
may see what hit the taste of unlettered 
criticism. I should be glad to know, if the 
enlightened mind and refined taste of Mr. 
Roscoe, who has borne such honourable 
fastimony to this poem, agrees with me in 
the selection. Fergussou, iu his Hallow 
Fair of Edinburgh, I believe, likewise fur- 
nished a hhit of the title and plan of the 
Holy I'air. The farcical scene the poet 
there describes was often a favourite field of 
his observation, and the most of the incidents 
he mentions had actually passed before his 
eyes. It is scarcely necessary to mention, 
that The Lament was composed on that 
unfortunate passage in his matrimonial his- 
tory v/hich I have mentioned in my letter to 
Mrs. Dunlop, after the first distraction of 
his feelings had a little subsided. The Twa 
Dogs was composed after the resolution of 
publishing was nearly taken. Robert had 



had a dog, which he called Luath, that was 
a great favourite. The dog had been killed 
by the wanton cruelty of some person the 
night before my father's death. Robert said 
to me, that he should like to confer such 
immortality as he could bestow upon his old 
friend Luath, and that he had a great mind 
to introduce something into the book, under 
the title of Stanzas to the Memory of a 
Quadruped Friend ; but this plan was given 
up for the tale as it now stands. Cresar was 
merely the creature of the poet's imagina- 
tion, created for the purpose of holding chat 
with his favourite Luath. The first time 
Robert heard the spinnet pla.\ >;d upon, m as 
at the house of Dr. Lawrie, then minister of 
the parish of Loudon, now in Glasgow, 
having given up the parish in favour of his 
son. Dr. Lawrie has several daughters ; 
one of them played ; the father and mother 
led down the dance ; the rest of the sisters, 
the brother, the poet, and the other guests, 
mixed in it. It was a delightful family 
scene for our poet, then lately introduced to 
the world. His mind was roused to a poetic 
enthusiasm, and the stanzas [which he 
wrote on the occasion] were left iu the room 
where he slept. It was to Dr. Lawrie tha*" 
Dr. Blacklock's letter was addressed, which 
my brother, in his letter to Dr. Moore, 
mentions as the reason of his gomg to 
Edinburgh. ■• • •" 



LETTER OF GILBERT BURNS. 

(First inserted in the S-conrl Elition.J 
The editor [Dr. Currie] has particular 
pleasure in presenting to the public tlie 
following letter, to the due understanding of 
which a few previous observations are 
necessary. 

The biographer of Burns was naturally 
desirous of hearing the opinion of the friend 
and brother of the poet, on the manner in 
which he had executed his task, before a 
second edition should be committed to the 
press. He had the satisfaction of receiving 
this opinion, in a letter dated the 24th of 
August, approving of the Life in very 
obliging terms, and offering one or two 
trivial corrections as to names and dates 
chiefly, which are made iu this edition. One 
or two observations were offered of a differ- 
ent kind. In the 319th page [correspond- 
ing to the CGth page of tlie present reprint 
of Dr. Currie's memoir], a quotation is made 
from the pastoral song, Ettrick Banks, and 
an explanation given Xti the phrase "mony 
feck," which occurs iu this quotation. Sup. 
posiug the sense to be complete aftei 



ADDENDA. 



m 



" mony," the editor had considered " feck" a 
rustic oath which coiiiirined the assertion. 
The words were, therefore, separated by a 
comma. Mr. lUiriis considered this an 
error. " Feck," he presumes, is the Scot- 
tish word for quantity, and " niony feck " 
tD mean simply, very many. Tlie editor, in 
yielding to this authority, expressed some 
hesitation, and hinted that the phrase 
" mony feck " was, in Mr. Burns's sense, 
a pleonasm, or barbarism, which deformed 
tliis beautiful song. His reply to this obser- 
vation makes the first clause of the following 
letter. 

In the same communication he informed 
me, that the Mirror and the Lounger were 
proposed by him to the Conversation Club 
of Mauchline, and that he had thoughts of 
giving me his sentiments on the remarks I 
had made respecting the fitness of such 
works for such societies. The observations 
of such a man on such a subject, the editor 
conceived, would be received with particular 
interest by the public, and, ha\ing pressed 
earnestly for them, they will be found in the 
following letter. Of the value of this com- 
munication, delicacy towards his very re- 
spectable correspondent prevents him from 
expressing his opinion. The original letter j 
is in the hands of Messrs. Cadell and 
Davies. 

" DiiDiiiifj, Dumfriesshire, 2ith Oct., 1800. 

"Dear Sir. — Yours of the l/th instant 
came to my hand yesterday, and I sit down 
this afternoon to write you in return ; but 
when 1 shall be able to finish all I wish to 
Bay to yon, I cannot tell. I am sorry your 
conviction is not complete respecting /ccfc. 
There is no doubt, that if you take two 
English words which appear synonymous to 
vioiiy feck, und judge by the rules of English 
construction, it will appear a barbarism. I 
believe, if you take this mode of translating 
from any language, the effect will frequently 
be the same. But if you take the expression 
mony feck to have, as I have stated it, the 
same meaning wii'.i the English expression 
teri/ many (and such licence every translator 
must be allowed, especially when he trans- 
lates from a simple dialect which has never 
been subjected to rule, and where the precise 
meaning of words is, of consequence, not 
minutely attended to), it will be well enough. 
One tiling I am certain of, that ours is the 
sense universally understood in this country; 
and I believe no Scotsman who has lived 
contented at home, pleased with the simple 
manners, the simple melodies, and the sim- 
ple dialect of his native country, uiivitiated 



by foreign intercourse, 'whose soul-proml 
science never taught to stray,' ever dis- 
covered barbarism in the song of Ettrick 
Banks. 

" 'I'iie story you have heard of the gable 
of my father's house falling down, is simply 
as follows (151) : — When my father built his 
' clay biggin,' he put in two stone-jambs, as 
they are called, and a lintel, carrying up a 
chimney in his clay-gable. The consequence 
was, that as the gable subsided, the jambs, 
remaining firm, threw it off its centre ; and 
one very stormy morning, when my brother 
was nine or ten days old, a little before day- 
light, a part of the gable fell out, and the 
rest appeared so shattered, that my mother, 
with the young poet, had to be carried 
through the storm to a neighl)our's house, 
where they remained a week till their own 
dwelling was adjusted. That you may not 
think too meanly of this house, or of ray 
father's taste in budding, by supposing the 
poet's description in the Vision (which is 
entirely a fancy picture) applicable to it, 
allow me to take notice to you, that the 
house consisted of a kitchen in one end, and 
a room in the other, with a fire-place and 
chimney ; that my father had constructed a 
concealed bed in the kitchen, with a small 
closet at the end, of the same materials with 
the house ; and when altogether east over, 
outside and in, with Inne, it had a neat, 
comfortable appearance, such as no' family of 
the same rank, in the present improved style 
of living, would think themselves ill-lodged 
in. 1 wish likewise to take notice in passing, 
that although the ' Cotter ' in the Saturday 
Night, is an exact copy of my father in his 
manners, his family-devotion, and exhorta- 
tions, yet the other parts of the descrip- 
tion do not apjily to our family. None of 
us were ever ' at service out amang the nei- 
bors roun'.' Instead of o\ir depositing out 
' sair-won penny fee ' with our parents, my 
father laboured hard, and lived with the 
most rigid economy, that he might be able 
to keep his children at home, therciiy having 
an opportunity of watcliing the progress of 
our young minds, and forming in them 
early habits of piety and virtue ; and from 
this motive alone did he engage in faiMiii!g — 
the source of all his difficulties and dis- 
tresses. 

" When I threatened you in my last with 
a long letter on the subject of the books I 
recommended to the Jlauchline Club, una 
the effects of refinement of taste on the 
labouring classes of men, I meant merely 
to wTite you on that subject, with the view 
that, in some future commuiiicatiou to the 



90 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



publif;, you might take up the subject more 
at large ; that by means of your happy 
manner of writing, the attention of people 
of power and influence might be fixed on it. 
I had little expectation, however, that I 
should overcome my indolence, and the diffi- 
culty of arranging my thoughts so far as to 
put my threat in execution ; till some time 
ago, before I had finished my harvest, 
having a call from Mr. Ewart (152), with a 
message from you, pressing me to the per- 
formance of this task, I thought myself no 
longer at liberty to decline it, and resolved 
to set about it \ritli my first leisure. I will 
now, therefore, endeavour to lay before you 
what has occurred to my mind, on a subject 
wliere people capable of observation, and of 
placing their remarks in a proper point of 
view, have seldom an opportunity of making 
their remarks on real life. In doing this, I 
may perhaps be led sometimes to write more 
in the manner of a person communicating 
information to you which you did not know 
before, atul at other times more in the style 
of egotism, than I would choose to do to 
any person, in whose candour, and even per- 
sonal good will, I had less confidence. 

" There are two several lines of study that 
open to every man as he enters life : the one, 
the general science of life, of duty, and of 
happiness ; the other, the particular arts of 
his employment or situation in society, and 
the several branches of knowledge tlierewith 
connected. This last is certaiidy indispen- 
sable, as nothing can be more disgraceful 
than ignorance in the way of one's own pro- 
fession ; and whatever a man's speculative 
knowledge may be, if he is ill-informed there, 
he can neither be a useful nor a respectable 
member of society. It is, nevertheless, true, 
that ' the proper study of mankind is man ;' 
to consider what duties are incumbent on 
him as a rational creature, and a member of 
society ; how he may increase or secure his 
happiness ; and how he may prevent or soften 
the many miseries incident to human life. 
I think the pursuit of happiness is too fre- 
quently confined to the endeavour after the 
acquisition of wealth. I do not wish to be 
considered as an idle declaimer against riches, 
which, after all that can be said against them, 
will still be considered by men of common 
sense as objects of importance, and poverty 
will be felt as a sore evil, after all the fine 
things that can be said of its advantages ; 
on tlie contrary, I am of opinion, that a 
great proportion of the miseries of life arise 
from the want of economy, and a prudent 
attention to money, or the ill-directed or 
intemperate pursuit of it. But however 



valuable riches may be as the means of com- 
fort, independence, and the pleasure of doing 
good to others, yet I am of opinion that they 
may be, and frequently are, purchased at too 
great a cost, and tiiat sacrifices are made in 
the pursuit, which the acquisition cannot 
compensate. I remember hearing my worthy 
teacher, jNIr. IMurdoch, relate an anecdote to 
my father, which I think sets this matter in 
a strong light, and perhaps was the origin, 
or at least tended to promote this way of 
thinking in me. When Mr. Murdoch left 
.411oway, he went to teach and reside in the 
family of an opulent farmer who had a num- 
ber of sons. A neighbour coming on a 
visit, in the course of conversation, asked 
the father how he meant to dispose of his 
sons. The father replied that he had not 
determined. The visitor said that, were he 
in his place, he would give them all good 
education and send them abroad, without, 
perhaps, having a precise idea where. The 
fatlier objected, that many young men lost 
their health in foreign countries, and many 
their lives. True, replied the visitor, but as 
you have a number of sons, it will be strange 
if some one of them does not Uve and make 
a fortune. 

" Let any person who has the feelings of 
a father, comment on this story ; but though 
few will avow, even to themselves, that such 
views govern their conduct, yet do we not 
daily see people shipping off their sons (and 
who would do so by their daughters also, if 
there were any demand for them), that they 
may be rich or perish? 

"The education of the lower classes is 
seldom considered in any other pomt of 
view than as the means of raising them from 
that station to which they were born, and of 
making a fortune. I am ignorant of the 
mysteries of the art of acquiring a fortune 
without any thing to begin with, and cannot 
calculate, with any degree of exactness, the 
difficulties to be surmounted, the mortifica- 
tions to be suffered, and the degradation of 
character to be submitted to, in lending 
one's self to be the minister of other people's 
vices, or in the practice of rapine, fraud, op- 
pression, or dissimulation, in the progress ; 
but even when the wished-for end is attained, 
it may be questioned whether happiness be 
much increased by the change. When I have 
seen a fortunate adventurer of the lower 
ranks of life returned from the East or West 
Indies, with all the hauteur of a vulgar 
mind accustomed to be served by slaves, as- 
suming a character, which, from early habits 
of life, he is ill fitted to support — displaying 
magnificence which raises the envy of some. 



ADDENDA. 



91 



Aiid the contempt of others — claiming an 
equality with tlie great, which they are un- 
willing to allow — inly pining at the prece- 
dence of the hereilitary gentry — maddened 
by the polished insolence of some of the 
unworthy part of them — seeking pleasure in 
the society of men wlio can condescend to 
flatter him, and listen to his absurdity for 
the sake of a good dinner and good wine — 
I cannot avoid conchuling, that his brother, 
or companion, who, by a diligent application 
to the labours of agriculture, or some usefid 
mechanic employment, and the careful lius- 
banding of his gains, has acquired a com- 
petence in his station, is a much happier, 
and, in the eye of a person who can take an 
enlarged view of mankind, a much more 
respectable man. 

" But the votaries of wealth may be con- 
sidered as a great number of candidates 
striving for a few prizes : and whatever ad- 
dition the successful may make to their plea- 
sure orhappiness,the disappointed will always 
have more to suffer. 1 am afraid, than those 
who abide contented in the station to which 
they were born. I wish, therefore, the edu- 
cation of the lower classes to be promoted 
and directed to their improvement as men, 
as the means of increasing their virtue, and 
opening to tlicm new and dignified sources 
of pleasure and happiness, i have heard 
some people object to the education of the 
lower chisses of men, as rendering them less 
useful, by abstracting them from their pro- 
per business; others, as tending to make 
them saucy to their superiors, impatient of 
their condition, and turbulent subjects ; 
while you, with more humanity, have your 
fears alarmed, lest the delicacy of mind, 
induced by that sort of education and read- 
ing I recommended, should render the evils 
of their situation insupportable to them. I 
wish to examine the validity of each of these 
objections, beginning with the one you have 
mentioned. 

" I do not mean to controvert your criti- 
cism of my favourite books, the Mirror and 
Lounger, although I understand there are 
people who think themselves judges, who do 
not agree with you. The acquisition of 
knowledge, except what is connected with 
human life and conduct, or the particular 
business of his emiiloyment, does not ap- 
pear to me to be the fittest pursuit for a 
peasant. I would say with the poet, 
* How empty learning, and how vain is art, 
Save where it guides the life, or mends the 

heart !' 

" There seems to be a considerable latitude 
in the use of the word taste. I understand 



it to be the perception and relish of beauty, 
order, or any other thing, the contemplatiou 
of which gives pleasure and delight to the 
mind. I suppose it is in this sense you wish 
it to be understood. If I am right, the 
taste which these books are calculated to 
cultivate (besides the taste for line writing, 
which many of the papers tend to improve 
and to gratify), is what is proper, consistent, 
and becoming in human character and con- 
duct, as almost every paper relates to these 
subjects. 

" 1 am sorry I have not these books by 
me, that I might point out some instances. 
1 remember two ; one, the beaut ifid story of 
La Roche, where, besides the pleasure one 
derives from a beautiful simple story, told ia 
M'Kenzie's happiest manner, the mind is led 
to taste, with lieartfelt rapture, the consola- 
tion to be derived in deep aftliction, from 
habitual devotion and trust in Almighty 
God. The other, the story of General 

W , where the reader is led to have a 

high relish for that firmness of mind which 
disregards appearances, the common forms 
and vanities of life, for the sake of doing 
justice in a case which was out of the reach 
of human laws. 

" Allow me then to remark, that if the 
morality of these books is subordinate to 
the cultivation of taste ; that taste, that re- 
tiiiemeiit of mind and delicacy of sentiment 
which they are intended to give, are the 
strongest guard and surest foundation of 
morality and virtue. Other moralists guard, 
as it were, the overt act ; these papers, by 
exalting duty into sentiment, are calculated 
to make every deviation from rectitude and 
propriety of conduct, painful to the mind 

' ^^^lose temper'd pow^ is, 
Refine at length, and every pa^slorl wears 
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien.' 

" I readily grant you, that the refinement 
of mind which 1 contend for increases our 
sensibility to the evils of life ; but what sta- 
tion of life is without its evils ? There 
seems to be no such thing as perfect hap- 
piness in this world, and we must balance 
the pleasure and the pain which we derive 
from taste, before we can properly ajiprc- 
ciate it in the case before us. 1 apprehend, 
that on a minute examination it will appear, 
that the evils peculiar to the lower ranks of 
life derive their power to wound us, more 
from the suggestions of false pride, and 
the 'contagion of luxury, weak and vile,' 
than the refinement of our taste. It was a 
favourite remark of my brother's, that there 
was no part of the constitution of our ufw 



<J2 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



ture CO which we were more indebted, than 
lliat by wliich ' ciistcun makes tliimjs familiar 
and easy' (a copy Mr. jMurdoch used to set 
u-i to write) ; and there is little labour 
which custom will not make easy to a man 
in health, if he is not ashamed of his em- 
ployment, or does not begin to compare his 
situation with those he may see going about 
at their ease. 

" But the man of enlarged mind feels the 
respect due to him as a man ; he has learned 
that no employment is dishonourable in 
itself; that while he performs aright the 
duties of that station in which God has 
placed him, he is as great as a king in the 
eyes of Him whom he is principally desirous 
to please ; for the man of taste, who is con- 
stantly obliged to labour, must of necessity 
be religious. If you teach him only to 
reason, you may make him an atheist, a de- 
magogue, or any vile thing ; but if you 
teach him to feel, his feelings can only tiiid 
their proper and natural relief in devotion 
and religious resignation. lie knows that 
those people who are to appearance at ease, 
are not without their share of evils, and 
that even toil itself is not destitute of ad- 
vantages. He listens to the words of his 
favomite poet : 
•Oh, mortal man, that livcst here by toil, 

Cease to repine and grudge thy hard estate I 
Tiiat like an emmet thou must ever moil, 

Is a sad sentence of an ancient date ; 

And, certes, there is for it reason great ; 
Althous'h sometimes it makes thee weep and 
wail, [late ; 

And curse thy star, and early drudge, and 
Withouten that would come an heavier bale. 
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale!' 

" And while he repeats the words, the 
grateful recollection comes across his mind, 
how often he has derived ineffable pleasure 
from the sweet song of ' nature's darling 
child.' I can say, from my own experience, 
that there is no sort of farm-labour incon- 
sistent with the most refined and pleasurable 
state of the mind that I am acquainted with, 
thrashmg alone e.Kcepted. That, indeed, I 
have always considered as insupportable 
drudgery, and think the ingenious mechanic 
who invented the thrashing-machine, ought 
to have a statue among the benefactors of 
his country, and should be placed in the 
niche next to the person who introduced the 
culture of potatoes mto this island. 

"Perhaps the thing of most importance in 
the education of the common people js, to 
prevent the intrusion of artificial wants. I 
bless the memory of my worthy father for 
almost every thing in the dispositions of my 
mind, and my habits of life, which I can 



approve of; and for none more than the 
pains he took to impress my mind with the 
sentiment, that nothmg was more unworthy 
the character of a man, that that his happi- 
ness should in the least depend on what he 
should eat or drink. So early did he im- 
press my mind with this, that although I 
was as fond of sweetmeats as children gene- 
rally are, yet I seldom laid out any of the 
half-pence which relations or neighbours 
gave me at fairs, in the purchase of them ; 
and if I did, every mouthful I swallowed 
was accompanied with shame and remorse; 
and to this hour I never indulge in the use 
of any delicacy, but I feel a considerable 
degree of self-reproach and alarm for the 
degradation of the human character. Such 
a habit of thinking I consider as of great 
consequence, both to the virtue and hajipi- 
ness of men in the lower ranks of life. And 
thus. Sir, I am of opinion, that if their 
minds are early and deeply impressed with 
a sense of the dignity of man, as such ; with 
the love of independence and of industry, 
economy and temperance, as the most ob- 
vious means of making themselves inde- 
pendent, and the virtues most becoming 
their situation, and necessary to their happi- 
ness ; men in the lower ranks of life may 
partake of the pleasures to be derived from 
the perusal of books calculated to improve 
the mind and refine the taste, without any 
danger of becoming more unhappy in their 
situation, or discontented with it. Nor do 
I think there is any danger of their be- 
coming less useful. There are some hours 
every day that the most constant labourer is 
neither at work nor asleep. These hours 
are either appropriated to amusement or to 
sloth. If a taste for employing these 
hours in reading were cultivated, 1 do not 
suppose that the return to labour would be 
more ditticult. Every one will allow, that 
the attachment to idle amusements, or even 
to sloth, has as powerful a tendency to ab- 
stract men from tiieir proj)er business, as the 
attachment to books ; while the one dissi- 
pates the mind, and the other tends to in- 
crease its powers of self-government. To 
those who are afraid that the improvement 
of the minds of the common people mi;;ht 
be dangerous to the state, or the establisheo' 
order of society, I would remark, that tur- 
bulence and conunotion are certainly verj 
inimical to the feelings of a refined mind. 
Let the matter be brought to the test of ex- 
perience and observation. Of what descrip- 
tion of people are mobs and insurrections 
composed ? Are they not universally owing 
to the want of enlargement and improve- 



ADDENDA. 



93 



ment of mind among the common people ? 
Nay, let any one recollect the characters of 
those who formed the calmer and more de- 
liberate associations, which lately gave so 
much alarm to the govenuneiit of this 
country. I suppose few of the common 
people who were to be found in such socie- 
ties, had the education and turn of mind I 
have been endeavouring to recommend. 
Allow me to suggest one reason for en- 
deavouring to enlighten the minds of the 
common people. Their morals have hitherto 
been guarded bv a sort of dim religious awe, 
which, from a variety of causes, seems wear- 
ing otf. I think the alteration in this re- 
spect consid rable, in the short period of my 
observation. I have already given my 
opinion of the effects of refinement of mind 
on morals and virtue. AMienever vulgar 
minds begin to shake off the dogmas of the 
religion in which they have been educated, 
the progress is quick and immediate to 
downright infidelity ; aiul nothing but 
refinement of mind can enable them to dis- 
tinguish between the pure essence of reli- 
gion, and the gross systems which men have 
been perpetually connecting it with. In 
addition to what has already been done for 
the education of the common people of this 
country, in the establishment of parish 
.s-'iools, I wish to see the salaries augmented 
i 1 -iome proportion to tlie present expense 
ox living, and the earnings of people of 
Bi Hilar rank, en Jowraeiits, and usefulness, in 
society ; and I hope that the hberality of 
the present age will be no longer disgraced 
by refusing, to so useful a class of men, 
such encouragement as may make parish 
schools worth the attention of men fitted for 
the important duties of that office. In till- 
ing up the vacancies, I would have more 
attention paid to the candidate's capacity of 
reading the English language with grace 
and propriety — to his understanding tho- 
roughly, and having a high relish for, the 
beauties of English authors, both in poetry 
and prose — to that good sense and know- 
ledge of human nature which would enable 
him to acquire some influence on the minds 
and affections of his scholars — to the general 
worth of his character, and the love of his 
kmg and his country — than to his proficiency 
in the knowledge of Latin and Greek. I 
vould then have a sort of high English 
class established, not only for the purpose of 
teaching the pupils to read in that graceful 
and agreeable manner that might make them 
fond of reading, but to make them under- 
stand what they read, and discover the 
lieauties of the author, in composition and 



sentiment. I would have established iu 
every parish a small circulating library, con- 
sisting of the books which the yoniig 
people had read extracts from in the collec- 
tions they had read at school, and any other 
books well calculated to refine the mind, im- 
prove the moral feelings, recommend the 
practice of virtue, and communicate such 
knowledge as might he useful and suitable to 
the labouring classes of men. I would have 
the schoolmaster act as librarian ; and ia 
recommending books to his young friends, 
formerly his pupils, and letting in the light 
of them upon their young minds, he should 
have the assistance of the minister. If once 
such educatio-.'. were become general, the 
low delights of the public-house, and other 
scenes of riot and depravity, would be con- 
temned and neglected ; while industry, 
(Irder, cleanliness, and every virtue which 
taste and independence of mind could re- 
commend, would prevad and flourish. Thus 
possessed of a virtuous and enlightened 
popidace, with high delight I should con- 
sider my native country as at the head of all 
the nations of the earth, ancient or modern. 

" Thus, Sir, have I executed my threat to 
the fullest extent, in regard to the length of 
my letter. If I had not presumed on doing 
it more to my liking, I should not have un- 
dertaken it ; but I have not time to attempt 
it anew ; nor, if I would, am I certain that I 
should succeed any better. I have learned 
to have less confidence in my capacity of 
writing on such sulijects. 

"I am much obliged by your kind in- 
quiries about my situation and prospects. I 
am much pleased with the soil of this farm, 
and with the terms on which I possess it. I 
receive great encouragement likeivise in 
building, enclosing, and other conveniences, 
from my landlord, i\Ir. G. S. Monteith, whose 
general character and conduct, as a landlord 
and country-gentleman, I am highly pleased 
with. But the land is in such a state as to 
require a considerable immediate outlay of 
money in the purchase of manure, the 
grubbing of brush-wood, removing of stones, 
&c., which twelve years' struggle with a 
farm of a cold ungrateful soil has but ill- 
prepared me for. If I can get these things 
done, however, to my mind, I think there is 
next to a certainty that in five or six years 
I shall be in a hopeful way of attaining a 
situation which I think as eligible for happi- 
ness as any one I know ; for 1 have al« ays 
been of opinion, that if a man bred to the 
habits of a farming life, who possesses a 
farm of good soil, on such terms as enable* 
him easily to pay all demands, is not happy, 



94 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



he ought to look somewhere else than to his 
tit\iation for the causes of his uneasiness. 

" I beg you will present my most respect- 
ful compliments to Mrs. Currie, and remem- 
ber me to Mr. and ilrs. Koscoe, and Mr 
Koscoe, Junior, the worth of whose kind 
attentions to me, when in Liverpool, I shall 
never forget. I am, dear sir, your most 
obedient, and much obliged humble servant, 

"Gilbert Burns. 
« To James Currie, M.B.,F.R.S. 
Liverpool." 



Qiiji! l^iilDra, f Ijilkpn, antt Sjrntljrr nf 
iiirns. 

At the time of Burn's decease, his family 
consisted of his wife and four sons — Robert, 
born at Mauchline, in 1786; Francis Wal- 
lace, born at EUisland, April 9, 1791 ; 
William Nicol, born at Dumfries, November 
21, 1792; and James Glencairn. Oi. the 
day of the poet's funeral, Mrs. Burns pro- 
duced a fifth son, who received the name of 
Maxwell, but did not long survive. Francis 
Wallace, a child of uncommon vivacity, died 
at the age of fourteen. The three other 
sons yet (1838) survive. Robert received a 
good education at the academy of Dumfries, 
was two sessions at the university of Edin- 
burgh, and one at the university of Glas- 
gow ; and in 1804 obtained a situation in 
the Stamp Office, London, where he con- 
tinued for twenty-nine years, improvi/\g a 
narrow income by teaching the classics and 
mathematics. It is remarkable, that during 
that long time he and his mother, though on 
the best terms, never once met. In 1833, 
having obtained a superannuation allowance, 
he retired to Dumfries, where he now lives. 
He has the dark eyes, large liead, and 
swarthy complexion of his father, and 
possesses much more than the average of 
mental capacity. He has written many 
verses far above mediocrity ; but the bent 
of his mind is towards geometry — a study 
in which his father was much more ac- 
complished than his biographers seem to 
have been aware of. William and James 
went out to India on cadetships, and have 
each risen to the rank of major in the 
Company's service. " Wherever these men 
wander, at home or abroad, they are re- 
garded as the scions of a noble stock, and 
receive the cordial greetings of hundreds 
who never saw their faces before, but who 
account it a happiness to grasp, in friendly 
pressure, the hand in which circulates the 
blood of Burns." — M'Diarmid's Picture of 
Dumfries. 



The only dependence of Mrs. B\ims, after 
her husband's death, was on an annuity ol 
ten pounds, arising from a benefit society 
connected with the Excise, the books and 
other moveable property left to her, and the 
generosity of the public. The subscription, 
as we are informed by Dr. Currie, produced 
seven hundred pounds ; and the works of 
the poet, as edited with singular taste and 
judgment by that gentleman, brought nearly 
two thousand more. One half of the latter 
sum was lent on a bond to a Galloway 
gentleman, who continued to pay five per 
cent, for it till a late period. Mrs. Burns 
was thus enabled to support and educate 
her family in a manner creditable to the 
memory of her husband. Slie continued to 
reside in the house which had been occu- 
pied by her husband and herself, and 
" never changed, nor wished to change 

her place." 
For many years after her sons had left her 
to pursue their fortunes in the world, she 
lived in a decent and respectable manner, oa 
an income which never amounted to more 
than £02 per annum. At length, in 1817, 
at a festival held in Edinburgh to celebrate 
the birth-day of the bard, Mr. Henry, (now 
Lord) Cockburn acting as president, it was 
proposed by Mr. Maule of Panmure (now 
Lord Panmure), that some permanent addi- 
tion should be made to the income of the 
poet's widow. The idea appeared to be 
favourably received, but the subscription did 
not till rapidly. Mr. Maule then said that 
the burden of the provision should fall upon 
himself, and immediately executed a bond, 
entitling Mrs. Burns to an annuity of £50 
as long as she lived. This act, together 
with the generosity of the same gentleman 
to Nathaniel Gow, in his latter and evil 
days, must ever endear the name of Lord 
Panmure to all who feel warmly on the sub- 
jects of Scottish poetry and Scottish music. 

]Mr. Blaule's pension had not been en- 
joyed by the widow more than a year and 
a half, when her youngest son James at- 
tained the rank of Captain with a situation 
in the commissariat, and was thus enabled 
to relieve her from the necessity of being 
beholden to a stranger's hand for any share 
of her support. She accordingly resigned 
the pension. ]Mr. M'Diarmid, who records 
these circumstances, adds in another place, 
that, during her subsequent years, JNlrs. 
Burns enjoyed an income of about two 
hundred a-year, great part of which, as not 
needed by her, she dispensed in charities. 
Her whole conduct in widowhood was such 
as to secure imiversal esteem in the town 



ADDENDA. 



n-here she residpcl. She died, March 26, ! In personal aspect, Robert Bnms rescmhlcd 
lb34, in the (JSth year of her age, and was [ his mother ; Gilbert had the more aquihne 
buried beside her ilhistrious husband, in the i features of his father. The portrait of 
mausoleum at Dumfries. (153) | Robert Burns, painted by a l\Ir. Taylor, 

Mr. Gilbert Burns, the early companion | and p\il)lished in an enerraved form by 
and at all times the steadfast friend of 1 Messrs. Constable and Company a few 
the poet, continued to strugjrle with the j years ago, bore a striking resemblance to 
miserable glebe of Mossgiel "till about the I Gilbert. Tliis excellent man died at 
year 1797, when he removed to the farm of ; Grant's Braes, November 8, 1827, aged 
Dinning, on the estate of Mr. Monteith of about sixty-seven years. His sons, having 
Closeburn, in Nithsdale. The poet had lent j received an excellent education, occupy 
him £200 out of the profits of the Edin- I respectable stations in society. One is 
burgh edition of his works, in order that he factor to Lord Blantyre, and another is 



might overcome some of his difficulties ; 
and he, some years after, united himself to 
a Miss Breckonridge, by whom he had a 
family of six sons and five daughters. In 
consideration of the support he extended to 
his widowed mother, the poet seems never 
to have thought of a reckoning with him 
for the above sura. He was a man of 
sterling sense and sagacity, pious without 
asceticism or bigotry, and entertaining 
liberal and enlightened views, without being 
the least of an enthusiast. His letter to 
Dr. Currie, dated from Dinning, October 24, 
1800, shows no mean powers of composi- 
tion, and embodies nearly all the philan- 
thropic views of human improvement which 
have been so broadly realised in our own 
day. We ate scarcely more affected by the 
consideration of the penury under which 
some of his brother's noblest compositions 
were penned, than by the reflection that this 
beautiful letter was the effusion of a man 
who, with his family, daily wrought long 
and laboriously under all those circum- 
stances of parsimony which characterise 
Scottish rural life. Some years after, Mr. 
Gilbert Burns was appointed by Lady 
Blantyre to be land-steward or factor upon 
her estate of Lethington in East-Lothian, 
to which place he accordingly removed. 
His conduct in this capacity, during near 
twenty-five years, was marked by great 
fidelity and prudence, and gave the most 
perfect satisfaction to his titled employer. 
It was not till 1820, that he was enabled to 
repay the money borrowed from his brother 
in 1788 Being then invited by Messrs. 
Cadell and Davies to superintend, and 
improve as much as possible, a new edition 
of the poet's works, he received as nmch 
in remuneration of his labour, as enabled 
him to perform this act of duty. 

The mother of Robert and Gilbert Bums 
lived in the household of the latter at 
Grant's Braes, near Lethington, till 1820, 



minister of the parish of Monkton, near 
Ayr. 

Two sisters of Bums, one of whom is by 
marriage !Mrs. Begg, yet survive. They 
reside in the village of Tranent, East- 
Lothian. 



'^c^ljrrnfllngiral Drnrlnprnt iif f nrns. 

At the opeTiing of the ^Mausoleum, Jlarch 
1834, for the interment of Mrs. Burns, it 
was resolved by some citizens of Dumfries, 
with the concurrence of the nearest relative 
of the widow, to raise the cranium of the 
poet from the grave, and have a cast 
moulded from it, with a view to gratifying 
the interest likely to be felt by the students 
of phrenology respecting its peculiar de- 
velopment. Tliis purpose was carried into 
effect during the night between the 31st 
March and the 1st April, and the following 
is the description of the cranium, drawn up 
at the time by ]Mr. A. Blacklock, surgeon, 
one of the individuals present : — 

" The craniel bones were perfect in every 
respect, if we eicept a little erosion of their 
external table, and firmly held together by 
their sutures ; even the delicate bones of 
the orbits, \rith the trifling exception of the 
OS luir/uis in the left, were sound, and un- 
injured by death and the grave. The 
superior maxillary bones still retained the 
four most posterior teeth on each side, in- 
cluding the dentes sapientise, and all 
without spot or blemish ; the incisores, 
cuspidati, &c., had, in all probability, recently 
dropped from the jaw, for the alveoli were 
but little decayed. The bones of the face 
and palate were also sound. Some small 
portions of black hair, with a very few grey 
hairs intermixed, were observed white de- 
taching some extraneous matter from the 



occiput. Indeed, nothing could exceed the 
high state of preservation in which we found 
the bones of the cranium, or offer a fairer 
when she died at the age of eighty-eight, I opportunity of supplying what has so long 
Olid was buried in the churchyard of Bolton. I been desiderated by phrenologists — a 

10 



96 



LIFE OP BURNS. 



correct model (if our immortal poet's head : 
and in order to acconiplis'i this in the most 
accurate and satisfactory manner, every 
particle of sand, or other foreign body, was 
carefully washed off, and the plaster of Paris 
applied with all the tact and accuracy of an 
experienced artist. The cast is admirably 
taken, and cannot fail to prove highly in- 
teresting to phrenologists and others. 

"Ha\ iiig completed our intention, the skull, 
securely enclosed in a leaden case, was again 
committi^d to the earth, precisely where we 
found it. 

Archd. Blacklock." 

A cast from the skull having been trans- 
mitted to the Phrenological Society of 
Edinburgh, the following view of the cere- 
bral development of Burns was drawn up 
by Mr. George Combe, and published in 
connection with four views of the crai:vum. 
(fV. and A. K. Johnston, Edinburgh) : — • 

"I. DIMENSIONS OF THE SKULL. 

Inches. 

Greatest circumference 22| 

Fiom Occipital Spine to Individuality, 

over the top of the head . . 14 
„ Ear to Ear vertically over the top 

of the head 13 

„ Philoprogenitiveness to Individu- 
ality, (greatest length) . . . ' 8 
., Concentrativeness to Comparison 7| 
„ Ear to Philoprogenitiveness . . 4| 
„ „ Individnahty .... 4| 

„ „ Benevolence 5i 

„ „ Firmness 65 

„ Destructiveness to Destructive- 

ness 5i 

„ Secretiveness to Secretiveness . 5| 

„ Cautiousness to Cautiousness . 5j 

„ Ideality to Ideality 4f 

„ Constructiveness to Constructive- 

ness 4| 

^ Mastoid process to Mastoid Pro- 
cess 41 

"11. DEVELOPEMENT OF THE ORGANS. 

Scale 

1. Amativeness, rather large ... 16 

2. Philoprogenitiveness, very large . 20 

3. Concentrativeness, large .... 18 

4. Adhesiveness, very Iprge ... 20 

5. Combativeness, very large , , , 20 
G. Destructiveness, large .... 18 

7. Secretiveness, large 19 

8. Acquisitiveness, rather large , . 16 

9. Constructiveness, full .... 15 

10. Self-Esteem, large 18 

11. Love of Approbation, very large . 20 

12. Cautiousness, large 19 



13. Benevolence, very large .... 20 

14. Veneration, large ...,,, 78 

15. Firmness, full ..•..,. 15 

16. Conscientiousness, full , , , , Ij 

17. Hope, full ,1 

18. Wonder, large Irf 

19. Ideality, large ]8 

20. Wit, or Mirthfulness, full . . .* 15 

21. Imitation, large 1!) 

22. Individuality, large 19 

23. Form, rather large 1 ti 

24. Size, rather large ...... 17 

25. Weight, rather large 16 

26. Colouring, rather large .... ? 6 

27. Locality, large IS 

28. Number, rather full 1^ 

29. Order, full - 14 

30. Eventuality, large 18 

31. Time, rather large 1 J 

32. Tune, full 15 

33. Language, uncertain 

34 Coin])arison, rather large ... 17 

35. Causality, large 13 

" 7'he scale of the organs indicates their 
relative proportions to each other; 2 is 
idiotcy— 10 moderate — 14 full— IS Inrrje; 
and 20 very lun/e. 

" The cast of a skull does not show the 
temperament of the individual, but the por- 
traits of Burns indicate the bilious and 
nervous temperaments, the sources of 
strength, activity, and susceptibility; and 
the descriptions given by his contemporaries 
of his beaming and energetic eye, and the 
rapidity and impetuosity of his manifesta- 
tions, establish the inference that his brain 
was active and susceptible. 

" Size in the brain, other conditions being 
equal, is the measure of mental power. The 
skull of Burns indicates a large brain. The 
length is eight, and the greatest breadth 
nearly six inches. The circumference is 22\ 
inches. These measurements exceed the 
average of Scotch living heads, including the 
integuments, for which four-eighths of au 
inch may be allowed. 

" The brain of Burns, therefore, possessed 
the two elements of power and activity. 

" The portions of the brain which manifest 
the animal propensities, are uncommonly 
large, indicating strong passions, and great 
energy in action under their influence. The 
group of organs manifesting tlie domestic 
affections (Amativeness, Philoprogenitive- 
ness, and Adhesiveness), is large ; Philopro- 
genitiveness uncommonly so for a male 
head. The organs of Combativeness and 
Destructiveness are large, bespeaking greul 



ADDENDA. 



97 



h-'flt of temppr, impatipn''e, and liability to 
irriiiitiim. 

" Si-cretivenoss and Cautiousness are both 
larire, and would confer coiisideral)le power 
of restraint, where he felt restraint to be 
necessary. 

"Acquisitivenegs, Self-Esteem, and Love 
of Approbation, are also in ample endowment, 
although the first is less than the other 
two; these feelings give the love of pro- 
perty, a high consideration of self, and desire 
of the esteem of others. The first quality 
will not be so readily conceded to Burns as 
the second and third, which, indeed, were 
much stronger; but the phrenologist records 
what is ((resented by nature, in full confi- 
dence that the manifestations, when the 
character is correctly understood, will be 
found to correspond with the developement, 
and he states that the brain indicates con- 
siderable love of property. 

" The organs of the moral sentiments are 
also largely developed. Ideality, Wonder, 
Imitation, and Benevolence, are the largest 
in size. Veneration also is large. Con- 
scientiousness, Firmness, and Hope, are full. 

" The Knowing organs, or those of percep- 
tive intellect, are large; and the organs of 
Reflection are also considerable, but less 
than the former. Causality is larger than 
Comparison, and Wit is less than either. 

" The skull indicates the combination of 
strong animal passions with equally powerful 
111 ral emotions. If the natural morahty 
Lad been less, the endowment of the pro- 
pensities is suttieient to have constituted a 
character of the most desperate description. 
The combination as it exists, bespeaks a 
mind extremely subject to contending emo- 
tions — capable of great good, or great evil — 
and encompassed with vast difficulties in 
preserving a steady, even, onward course of 
practical morality. 

" In the combination of very large Philo- 
progenitiveness and Adhesiveness, with very 
large Benevolence and large Ideality, we find 
the elements of that exquisite tenderness 
and refinement, which Burns so frequently 
manifested, e\ en when at the worst stage of 
his career. In the combination of great 
Combativeness, Destructivencss, and Self- 
Esteera, we find the fundamental qualities 
which inspired ' Scots wha hae wi' AVallace 
bled,' and similar productions. 

" The combination of large Secretiveness, 
Imitation, and the perceptive organs, gives 
the elements of his dranuitic talent and 
humour. The skull indicates a decided 
talent for Humour, but less for Wit. The 
pubUc are apt to confoimd the talents for 



Wit and Humour. The metaphysicians, 
however, have distitigiiished them, and in 
the phrenological works their dift'erent ele- 
ments are pointed out. Burns possessed 
the talent for satire; Destructivencss, added 
to the combination which gives Humour, 
produces it. 

"An unskilful observer looking at the fore- 
.lead, might suppose it to be moderate in 
size ; but when the dimensions of the ante- 
rior lobe, in both length and breadth, are 
attended to, the Intellectual organs will be 
recognised to have been large. The anterior 
lobe projects so much, that it gives an ap- 
pearance of narrowness to the forehead 
which is not real. This is the cause, also, 
why Benevolence appears to lie farther back 
than usual. An anterior lobe of this magni- 
tude indicates great Intellectual power. The 
combination of large Percepti\e and Re- 
flecting organs (Causality predominant), with 
large Concentrativeness and large organs of 
the feelings, gives that sagacity and vigorous 
common sense, for which Burns was distui- 
guished. 

" The skull rises high above Causality, and 
spreads wide in the region of Ideality ; the 
strength of his moral feelings lay in that 
region. 

" The combination of large organs of the 
Animal Propensities, with large Cautious- 
ness, and only full Hope, together with the 
unfavourable circumstances in which he was 
placed, accounts for the melancholy and 
internal uidiappiness with which Burns was 
so frequently altiicted. This melancholy was 
rendered still deeper by bad health. 

"The combination of Acquisitiveness, Cau- 
tiousness, Love of Approbation, and Con- 
scientiousness, is the source of his keen 
feelings in regard to pecuniary independence. 
The great power of his Animal Propensities 
would give him strong temptations to waste ; 
but the combination just mentioned would 
impose a powerfid restraint. The head in- 
dicates the elements of an economical cha- 
racter, and it is known that he died fi-ee 
from debt, notwithstanding the smalluess of 
his salary. 

" No phrenologist can look upon this licad, 
and consider the circumstances in which 
Bums was placed, without vivid feelings of 
regret. Burns must have walked the earth 
with a consciousness of great superiority 
over his associates in the station in which 
he was placed — of powers calculated for a 
far higher sphere than that which he was 
able to reach, and of passions which he 
could with difficulty restiain, and which it 
I was fatal to indulge. If he had been placed 



98 



LIFE OF EUENS. 



from infancy in the higher ranks of life, 
liberally educated, and employed in pursuits 
corresponding to his powers, the inferior 
portion of his nature would have lost part 
of its energy, while his better qualities 
would have assumed a decided and per- 
manent superiority." 

A more elaborate paper on the skull of 
Burns appeared in the Phrenological Journal, 
No. XLL, from the pen of Mr. Robert Cox. 
This gentleman endeavours to show that the 
character of Burns was in conformity with 
the full development of Acquisitiveness. 
".According to his own description," says 
Mr. Cox, " he was a man who ' had little 
art in making money, and still less in keep- 
ing it.' That his art in making money was 
sufficiently moderate, there can be no doubt, 
for he was engaged in occupations which his 
sold loathed, and thought it below his 
dignity to accept of pecuniary remuneration 
for some of his most laborious literary per- 
formances. He was, however, by no means 
insensible to the value of money, and never 
threw It away. On the contrary, he was 
remarkably frugal, except when feelings 
stronger than Acquisitiveness came into play 
— such as Benevolence, Adhesiveness, and 
Love of Approbation; the organs of all 
which are very large, while Acquisitiveness 



is only rather large. During his residence 
at JNlossgiel, where his revenue was not 
more than £7, his expenses, as Gilbert men- 
tions, ' never in any one year exceeded his 
slender income.' It is also well known that 
he did not leave behind him a shilling of 
debt ; and I have learned from good autho- 
rity that his household was much more 
frugally managed at Dumfries than at Ellis- 
land — as in the former place, but not in the 
latter, he had it in his power to exercise a 
personal control over the expenditure. 1 
have been told also, that, after his death, the 
domestic expenses were greater than when 
he was alive. These facts are all consistent 
with a considerable development of Acquisi- 
tiveness, for, v,]\en that organ is small, there 
is habitual inattention to pecuniary con- 
cerns, even although the love of indepen- 
dence and dislike to ask a favour be strong. 
The indifference with respect to money, 
which Burns occasionally ascribes to him- 
self, appears therefore to savour of affecta- 
tion — a failing into which he was not 
uufrequently led by Love of Approbation and 
Sccretiveness. Indeed, in one of his letters 
to Miss Chalmers, he expressly intimates a 
wish to be rich." The whole of this essay 
is highly worthy of perusal by all who take an 
interest in the character of the Ayrshiie bard 




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POOPv TvT.-VlI-li; 




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©Ijr Sratir an!t Dijing IXJnrb nf 
1{kni Bailip. 

THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET TOWE. 

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. (1) 

As !Mailie, and her lamte thegither. 
Were ae day nibbling ou the tether, 
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch. 
And owre she warsled in the ditch : 
There, groaning, dying, she did he. 
When Hughoc he cam doytin by. 
Wi' glowering een and lifted han's. 
Poor Hughoc like a statue stands ; 
He saw her days were near-hand ended. 
But, waes my heart ! he could na mend it. 
He gaped wide but naething spak — 
At length poor Mailie silence brak. 

" Oh thou, whose lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my woefu' case 1 
My dying words attentive hear, 
And bear them to my master dear. 

" Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep. 
Oh bid him never tie them mair 
\'\1' wicked strings o' hemp or hair 1 
But ca' them out to park or hill. 
And let them wander at their will ; 
So may his flock increase, and grow 
To scores o' lambs, £md packs o' woo' 1 

" Tell him he was a master kin', 
And aye was guid to me and mine ; 
And now my dying charge I gie him — 
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. 



"Oh bid him save their harmless lives 
Frae dogs, and tods, and butchers' knives I 
But gie them guid cow-milk their iill. 
Till they be fit to fend themsel ; 
And tent them duly, e'en and mom, 
Wi' teats o' hay, and ripps o' corn. 

" And may they never learn the gaets 
Of other vile wanrestfu' pets ; 
To slink through slaps, and reave and steal 
At stacks o' peas, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like their great forbears. 
For many a year come through the shears : 
So wives will gie them bits o' bread. 
And bairns greet for them when they're dead. 

" My poor toop-lamb, my son and heir. 
Oh, bid him breed him up yn' care ; 
And if he live to be a beast, 
To pit some bavins in his breast ! 

" And warn him, what I wiima name. 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame ; 
And no to rin and wear his cloots. 
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. 

" And neist my yowie, silly thing, 
GuJe keep thee frae a tether string ; 
Oh, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop. 
But aye keep mind to moop and mell 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel. 

" And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath 
I lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith : 
And when you thuik upo' your mither. 
Mind 1o be kin' to aue auitber. 



102 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail 
To tell my master a' my tale ; 
And bid him burn this cursed tether, 
And, for tliy pains, thou's get my blether.' 
This said, poor Jlailie turn'd her head. 
And clos'd her een amang the dead. 



Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; 
Our bardie's fate is at a close, 

Past a' reniead ; 
The last sad caiie-stane of his woes — 

Poor Mailie's dead 1 
It's no the loss o' warl's gear, 
That could sae bitter draw the tear. 
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed : 
He's lost a friend and neibor dear, 

In Mailie dead. 
Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
\Vi' kmdly bleat, when she did spy him. 

She ran wi' speed : 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him 

Than MaiUe dead. 
1 wat she was a sheep o' sense. 
And could behave hersel' wi' raense : 
ril say't she .never brak a fence, 

Thro' thievish greed. 
Our bardie, lanely, keeps tlie spence 

Sin' Mailie's dead. 
Or, if he wanders up the howe, 
iler living image in her yowe. 
Comes bleating to him, o\vre the knowe. 

For bits o' bread ; 
And down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie dead. 
She was nae get o' moorland tips, 
Wi' tawtcd ket, and hairy hips. 
For her forbears were brought in sliips 

Frae yont the Tweed : 
A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips 

Than Mailie dead. 
Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
That nle, wanchancie thing — a rape ! 
It maks guid fellows gini and gape, 

Wi' chokin' dread ; 
And Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape 

For Mailie dead. 
Oh, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ! 
And wha on Ayr your clianters tune 1 
Come, join, the melanchoUous croon 

O' Robin's reed ! 
Ilis heart will never get aboon— 

His Mailie's dead ! 



(IFpislk In Danic. 

A BROTHER POET. (2) 

January, 1784. 
While winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw, 
And bar the doors with driving snaw. 

And hing us owre tlie ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time. 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme. 

In hamely westliu jingle. 
While frosty winds blaw in the drif^ 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folk's gift; 
That hve sa bien and snug : 
I tent less, and want less 
Their roomy fire-side ; 
But liankcr and canker 
To see their cursed pride. 

It's hardly in a body's power 

To keep, at times, frae being sour, 

To see how things are shar'd ; 
How best o' chiels are whiles in want. 
While coofs on countless thousands ran^ 

And ken na how to wair't ; 
But Davie, lad, ne'er fash yoiur head, 

Tho' we hae little gear, 
We're fit to win our daily bread. 
As lan's we're hale and fier : 
" ilair spier na, no fear na" (3), 

Auld age ne'er mind a feg. 
The last o't, the warst o't. 
Is only but to beg. (4) 

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en 

When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin. 

Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
Yet then content could make us blest ; 
Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile. 
However fortune kick the ba', 
Has aye some cause to smUe : 
And mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sma' ; 
Na mair then, we'll care then, 
Nae farther we can fa'. 

What though, like commoners of air. 
We wander out we know not where. 

But either house or hal'? 
Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods. 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods. 

Are free ahke to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground. 

And blackbirds wliistle clear. 
With honest joy our hearts will bound 
' To see the coming year : 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 



103 



Oil braes when we please, then. 
We'll sit au<l sowtli a tune ; 
Syne rhyme till't. we'll time till't. 
And smg't when we hae dune. 
It's no in titles nor in rank ; 
It's no in wealth like Lou'on bank. 

To purclia-!e peace and rest ; 
It's no in makiu' muckle mair ; 
It's no in bonks ; it's no in lear. 

To mak ns truly blest ; 
If happiness hae not her scat 

And centre in the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great. 
But never can be blest : 
Nae treasures nor pleasures 

Could make us happy lang; 
The lieart aye's the part aye 
That makes us ri,i;ht or WTang. 
Tliink ye, that sic as you and I, 
Wha (U-udge and drive through wet and dry, 

Wi' never-ceasing toil ; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way. 

As hardly worth their while ? 
Alas ! how aft, in haughty mood, 
God's creatures they oppress ! 
Or else neglecting a' that's guid, 
They riot iu excess ! 

liaith careless and fearless 

Of either heaven or hell I 
Esteeming and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale ! 
Then let us checrfu' acquiesce ; 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less. 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gie the wit of age to youth; 

They let us ken oursel; 
They make us see the naked truth. 
The real guid and ill. 

Thougli losses and crosses 
Be lessons right severe, 
Tliere's wit there, ye'll get there, 
Ye'll find nae other where. 
But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! 
(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes. 

And flatt'ry I detest) 
This life has joys for you and I ; 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy : 

And joys the very best. 
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart. 

The lover and the fricn' ; 
Ye hae your J\Icg (5), your dearest part, 
And 1 my darlin;;; Jean ! 
It warms me. it charms me, 

To mention but her name: 
It heats me, it beets me. 
And sets me a' ou flame I 



Oh, all ye pow'rs who rule abore I 
Oh, Thou, whose very self art love ! 
Thou know'st my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart; 
Or my more dear iinmnrtal part. 

Is not more fondly dear ! 
When heart-corroding care and grief 

Deprive my soul of rest, 
Her dear idea brings relief 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou IJeing, all-seeing. 

Oh hear my fervent pray'r! 
Still take her, and make her 
Thy most peculiar care ! 
All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
The smile of love, the friendly tear. 

The sympathetic glow ! 
Long since, this world's thorny ways 
Had number'd out my weary days. 

Had it not been for you I 
Fate still has blest me with a friend. 

In every care and ill ; 
And ofc a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebrific scene, 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean ! 
Oh, how that name inspires my style! 
The words come skelpin', rank and tile, 

Amaist before I ken ! 
The ready measure riiis as fine 
As I'hcebus and the famous Nine 

Were glowriii' owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus wiU limp. 

Till ance he's fairly het ; 
And then he'll hilch, and stUt, and jimp^ 
And rin an unco tit : 

But lest then, the beast then 
Should rue this hasty ride, 
I'll light now, and dight now. 
His sweaty, wizen'd hide. 



51Jilirr55 1j tljp Dril. (6) 

Oh Prince ! Oh cliicf of many throned pow'ra, 
That led th' embattled seraphim to war. — 

Milton. 
On thou ! whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie^ 
"Wha in yon cavern grim and sootie. 

Closed under hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie^ 

To scaud poor wretches I 
Hear me, auld Ilangie, for a wee. 
And let poor damned bodies be ; 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie. 

E'en to a deil, 
To skelp and scaud poor dogs like me. 

And hear us squeel 1 



1D4 



P.URXS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Great is fliy pow'r, and great thy fame ; 
Far ken'd and noted is thy name ; 
And tha' you lowin' heugh's thy hame, 

Thou travels far ; 
And, faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame. 

Nor blate nor scaur. 
Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion. 
For prey a' holes and corners tryin' ; 
Whyleson the strong-wing'd tempest flyin', 

Tirlin' the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin'. 

Unseen thou lurks. 
I've heard my reverend granny say. 
In hmely glens ye like to stray ; 
Or where auld ruin'd castles, gray. 

Nod to the moon, 
Ye fright the niglitly wand'rer's way 

Wi' eldritch croon. 

When twilight did my granny summon. 
To say her prayers, douce honest woman ! 
Aft yont the dyke she's heard youbummiu', 

Wi' eerie drone ; 
Or, rustlin', thro' the boortries comin', 

Wi' heavy groan. 
Ae dreary, windy, winter night. 
The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, 
Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright 

Ayont the lough ; 
Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight 

Wi' waving sough. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake. 
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake. 
When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaiek — quaick — 

Amang the springs, 
Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake. 

On whistling wings. 

Let warlocks grim, and wither'd hags. 
Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags. 
They skim tlie muirs and dizzy crags, 

Wi wicked speed ; 
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues 

Owre howkit dead. 

Thence couiitra wives, wi' toil and pain. 
May plunge and plunge the kirn in vain ; 
For, oh ! the yellow treasure's taen 

By witching skill ; 
And dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen 

As yell's the bdl. 

When thow-es dissolve the snawy hooord. 
And float the jinglin' icy boord, 
Then water kelpies haunt the foord. 

By your direction ; 
And 'nighted trav'llers are allur'd 

To their destruction. 

And aft your moss-traversing spunkies 
Decoy the wight that late and drunk is : 



The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkiea 

Delude his eyes, 
TiU in some miry slough he sunk is, 

Ne'er man: to rise. 

Wien masons' mystic word and grip 
In storms and tempests raise you up. 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop 

Or, strange to tell ! 
The youngest brother ye wad whip 

Alf straught to hell ! 

Lang syne, in Eden's bonny yard. 
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd. 
And all the soiU of love they shar'd. 

The raptur'd hour. 
Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry sward. 

In shady bow'r (7) : 

Then you, ye auld snec-dra^vulg dog I 

Ye came to Paradise incog. 

And played on man a cursed brogue^ 

(Black be your fa !) 
And gied the infant warld a shog, 

'Maist ruin'd a'. 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 

Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz. 
Ye did present your smoutie phis 

'Mang better folk, 
And sklented on the man of Uza 

Your spitefu' joke ? 

And how ne gat him i' your thrall. 
And brak him out o' house and hall, 
Wlule scabs and botches did him gaU 

Wi' bitter claw. 
And lows'd his iU-tongued, wicked scawl. 

Was warst ava ? 

But a' your doings to rehearse. 
Your wily snares and fetchin' fierce. 
Sin' that day INIichael did you pierce, 

Down to this time. 
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Earse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

And now, aidd Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin', 
A certain bardie's rantin', di-inkin'. 
Some luckless hour w ill send him linkin' 

To your black pit ; 
But, faith 1 he'U turn a corner jinkin'. 

And cheat you yet. 

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben 1 
Oh wad ye tak a thought and men' ! 
Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 

Still hae a stake — 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 
•* Ev'n for your aake I 



NEW- YEAR MORNING SALUTATION. 



105 



(tlji; 5InI& /aimrr's Jdrni-f^rar Jllnrning 
#alntatinit tn liis ijliilir Mm ffiaggip, 

ON GIVING HER THB ACCUSTOMED niPP OF 
CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR. 

A GUID New-year I wish thee, Maggie ! 
Ilae, there's a ripp to thy aiUd baggie ; 
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, and knaggie, 

I've seen the day 
Thou could hae gaen Uke onie staggie 

Out-owre the lay. 
Tho' now thou's dowie, stifT, and crazy. 
And thy a\dd hide's as white's a daisy, 
I've seeu thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, 

A bonny gray : 
He should been tight that daur't to raise thee 

Ance in a day. 
Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
A filly, buirdly, steeve, and swank. 
And set w eel down a shapely shank 

As e'er tread yird ; 
And coidd hae flown out-owre a stank. 

Like ony bird. 
It's now some nine-and-twenty year. 
Sin' thou was my guid-father's mere ; 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear 

And fifty mark ; 
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear. 

And thou was stark. 
When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottiu' wi' your minnie : 
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, and funnie. 

Ye ne'er was donsie ; 
But hamely, tawie, quiet, and cauuie. 

And unco sonsie. 
That day ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, 
AMien ye bure hame my bonny bride : 
And sweet and gracefu' she did ride, 

AVi' maiden air ! 
Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide. 

For sic a pair. 
Tlio' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble. 
And \»'intle like a saumont-coble. 
That day ye was a jiuker noble. 

For heels and win' ! 
, Aud ran them till they a' did wauble. 

Far, far beliiu' ! 
When thou and I were young and skeigh. 
And stable-meals at fairs were dreigh. 
How thou wad prance, and snore, aud skreigh 

And tak the road ! 
Town's bodies ran, and stood abeigh. 

And ca't thee mad. 
When thou was corn't, and I was mellow. 
We took the road aye like a swallow : 



At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow 

For pith and speed ; 
But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, 

■\Vhare'er thou gaed. 
Tlie sma' droop-rumpl't, hunter, cattle, 
jMight aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle. 

And gar't them whaizle : 
Nae wliip nor spur, but just a wattle 

O' saugh or hazle. 
Thou was a noble fittie-lan'. 
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ! 
Aft thee and I, in audit hours' gaun. 

In guid Jlarch weather, 
Ilae turn'd sax rood beside our han' 

For days thegither. 
Thou never braindg't, and fech't, and fliskit; 
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit. 
And spread abreed tliy well-fill'd brisket, 

Wi' pith and pow'r. 
Tin spritty knowes wad rair't and risket. 

And slypet owre. 
AVhen frosts lay lang, and snaws were deep, 
Aud tlirpaten'd labour back to keep, 
I gied ihy c 'g a wee-bit heap 

Aboon the timmer ; 
I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep 

For that, or simmer. 
In cart or car thou never reestit ; 
The steyest brae tliou wad hae fac't it ; 
Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit. 

Then stood to blaw ; 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit. 

Thou suoov't awa. 
My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a' ; 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw; 
Forbye sax mae I've sell't awa. 

That thou hast nurst : 
They drew me thretteen pund aud twa. 

The vera warst. 
JMonie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought. 
And wi' the weary warl' fought ! 
Aud monie an anxious day I thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi' something yet. 
And think na, my auld trusty servan*. 
That now perhaps thou's less desernn'. 
And thy auld days may end in starvLu', 

For my last fou, 
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 
We've worn to crazy years thegither; 
We'U toyte about wi' ane anither; 
Wi' teutie care I'll flit thy tether. 

To some hain'd rig, 
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 

Wi' sma' fati'nie. 



106 



BUKNS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 



Uallniiirai. (8) 

Upon that night, when fairies light. 

On Cassihs Downans (9) dance. 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze. 

On sprightly coursiers prance; 
Or for Coleon the route is ta'en. 

Beneath the moon's pale beams ; 
There, up the cove (lOj, to stray and rove 

Amang the rocks and streams 
To sport that night. 

Amang the bonny, winding banks. 

Where Doon rins, wimphu', clear, 
\Vliere Bruce (11) ance rul'd the martial 
ranks, 

And shook his Carrick spear. 
Some merry, friendly, countra folks. 

Together did convene. 
To burn tlieir nits, and pou their stocks. 

And haud their Halloween 

Fu' blythe that night. 
The lasses feat, and cleanly ueat, 

JIair braw than when tliey're fine ; 
heir faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe. 

Hearts leal, and warm, and kin' : 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 

Weel knotted on their garten. 
Some unco blate, and some wi' gabs. 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startiu' 
Whiles fast at night. 
Then, first and foremost, thro' the kail. 

Their stocks (12j manna' besought ance; 
They steek their een, and graip, and wale. 

For niuckle anes and straught anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will fell aff th - ilrift. 

And wander'd thro' the bow-kail. 
And pou't, for want o' better shift, 

A runt was like a sow-tad, 

Sae bow't that night. 
Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane. 

They roar and cry a' throu'ther ; 
The vera wee-things, todlin', rin 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther : 
And gif the custoc's sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi' cannie care, they've placed them 
To lie that night. 
The lasses straw frae 'mang them a' 

To pou then: stalks o' corn (13) ; 
But Kab slips out, and jinks about, 

Beliint the muckle thorn : 
He grippet Nelly hard and fast ; 

Loud skirl'd a' the lasses ; 
But her tap-pickle maist was lost. 

When kuittliu' in the fuuse-house (14) 
Wi' him that uight. 



Tlie auld guidwife's weel-hoordet nits (15) 

Are round and round divided. 
And mony lads' and lasses' fates 

Are there that night decided : 
Some kindle, couthie, side by side^ 

And burn thegither trimly ; 
Some start awa wi' saucy pride. 

And jump out-owre the chimlie 
Fu' high that night. 
Jean slips in twa wi' tentie e'e ; 

Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; 
But this is Jock, and this is me. 

She says in to hersel' : 
He bleez'd owre her, and she owre him. 

As tliey waud never mair part ; 
Tdl, fuff ! he started up the lum. 

And Jean had e'en a sair heart 
To see't that night. 
Poor Willie, wi' his how-kail runt. 

Was brunt wi' primsie !Mallie ; 
And Alary, nae doubt, took the dnmt, 

To be compared to ^^'iUie. 
Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling. 

And her ain fit it burnt it ; 
While Willie lap, and swoor, by jing, 

'Twas just the way he wanted 
To be that night. 
Nell had the fause-house in her min,' 

She pits hersel and Rob in ; 
In loving bleeze they sweetly join,. 

Till white in ase they're sobbiu'. 
Nell's heart was danein' at the view. 

She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't : 
Rob, stowlins, prie'd her bonny mou' 

Fu' cozie in the neux for't. 
Unseen that night. 
But Merran sat behint their backs. 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
She lea'es them gashin' at their cracks, 

And slips out by hersel' : 
She through the yard the nearest taks. 

And to the kiln she goes tlien, 
And darklins graipit for the banks. 

And in the blue-clue (16) throws then 
Right fear't that night. 
And aye she win't, and aye she aviat, 

I wat she made nae jaukin' ; 
Till something held within the pat. 

Quid L — d ! but she was quakin' I 
But whether 'twas the dcil hnnsel. 

Or whether 'twas a bauk-en'. 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She did na wait on talkin' 

To spier that night. 
Wee Jenny to her gpranny says, 

" Will ye go wi' me, granny ? 
I'll eat the apple (17) at the glass, 

1 gat frae uncle Johnny : " 



HALLOWEEN. 



107 



She fufTt her pipe wi' sic a lunt. 
In MTath she was sae vap'ria', 
She iiotic't na, aizle brunt 
Her braw new worset apron 

Out thro' that night. 
"Ye little skelpie-limmer's face I 

I daur you try sic sportin', 
As seek the foul thief onie place. 
For him to spae your fortune : 
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! 

Great cause ye hae to fear it ; 
For nionie a ane has gotten a fright. 
And lived aud died deleeret. 
On sic a night. 
Ac hairst afore the Sherra-moor — 
I mind't as well's yestreen, 
was a gilpey, then I'm sure 
I was na past fyfteen : 
The simmer had been cauld and wat. 

And stuff was unco' green ; 
And aye a rantin' kirn we gat. 
And just on Halloween 

It fell that night. 
Our stibble rig was Rab jNI'Graen, 

A clever, sturdy fallow : 
He's sin' gat Eppie Sim w* wean. 

That lived in Achmacalla : 
He gat hemp-seed (18), I mind it weel. 

And he made unco light o't ; 
But mony a day was by himsel', 
He was sae sairly frighted 
That very night." 
Then up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, 
Aud he swoor by his conscience. 
That he could sow hemp-seed a peck ; 

For it was a' but nonsense. 
The aulil guidman raught down the pock. 

And out a handfu' gied him ; 
Syne bade him slip frae 'mang the folk, 
Sometime when nae ane see'd him. 
And try'd that night. 
He marches through amang the stacks, 

Tho' he was something sturtin : 
The graip he for a harrow taks. 

And hauls at his curpin ; 
And every now and ihen he says, 

" Hemp-seed I saw thee. 
And her that is to be my lass. 
Come after me, and draw thee 
As fast this night." 
He whistl'd up Lord Leonox' march. 

To keep his courage cheery ; 
Altho' his hair began to arch. 
He was sae fley'd and eerie : 
Till presently he hears a squeak. 

And then a grane and gruntle ; 
He by his shouthcr gae a keek. 
And tumbl'd wi' o wintle 

Out-owre that night. 



11 



He roar'd a horrid murder-shout. 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
And young and auld cam rinnin' out. 

And hear the sad narration : 
He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean !M'Craw, 

Or croucliie Jlerran Huraphie, 
Till, stop — she trotted through tliem a'— 

And wha was it but grumphie 
Asteer that night ! 

j\Ieg fain wad to the barn hae gaen. 

To win three wechts o' naething (19) ; 
But for to meet the deil her lane. 

She pat cut little faith in : 
She gies tlie herd a pickle nit3. 

And twa red-cheekit apples. 
To watch, while for the barn she sets. 

In hopes to see Tarn Kipplea 
■ That vera night. 
She turns the key wi' cannie thraw. 

And owre the threshold venturs; 
But first on Sawny gies a ca', 

Sjiie bauldly in she enters : 
A ratton rattled up the wa'. 

And she cried, " L — d, preserve her !* 
And ran thro' midden hole and a', 

Aud pray'd with zeal aud fervour, 
Fu' fast that night. 

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice ; 

They hecht him some fine braw ane ; 
It chanc'd the stack he faddom't thrice (20), 

Was timmer-propt for thrawin' ; 
He taks a surly auld moss oak 

For some black, grousome carlin ; 
And loot a winze, and drew a stroke. 

Till skin in blypes cam haurlin' 
Aff's nieves that night. 
A wanton widow Leezie was. 

As canty as a kittlin ; 
But, och ! that night, amang the shaws, 

Slie got a fearfu' settlin' ! 
She thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 

Aud owTe the hill gaed scrievin, 
Where three lairds' lands met at a burn (21), 

To dip her left sark-sleeve in. 
Was bent that night. 
Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays. 

As through the glen it whimpl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays; 

Whyles in a wicl it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly raya, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cooyit underneath the braea, 

Below the spreading hazel. 
Unseen that night. 
Amang the brackens, on the brae, 

Between her and the moon, 
Tlie deil, or else an cutler quey. 

Gat up and gae a croon : 



lOS 



BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Poor Leezy's heart maist lap the hool ; 

Near lav'rock lieight she jumpit. 
But mist a fit, and in the pool 

Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night. 

In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 

The luggies three (22) are ranged, 
ATid every time great care is ta'en. 

To see them duly changed : 
Auld uncle John, wha' wedlock's joys 

Sin' Mars' year did desire. 
Because he gat the toom-dish thrice^ 

lie heav'd them on the fire 

In wrath that night. 

Wi' merry sangs, and friendly cracks, 

I wat they did nae weary : 
And unco tales, and funny jokes. 

Their sports were cheap and cheery ; 
Till butter'd so'ns (23), wi' fragrant lunt. 

Set a' their gabs a-steerin' ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt. 

They parted aff careerin' 

ru' blythe that night. (24) 



Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are. 
That bide the pelting of the pitiless storm ! 
How shall your houseless heads and unfed 
sides, [defend you 

Your looped and windowed raggedness, 
From seasons such as these?— Shakspeaee. 

When biting Boreas, fell and doure. 
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r ; 
When Phoebus gies a short-lived glow'r 

Far south the lift. 
Dim-darkening thro' the flaky show'r. 

Or whirling drift : 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 
Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked. 
While burns, wi' snawy wreaths up- 
choked. 

Wild eddying swirl. 
Or thro' the mining outlet hocked, 
Down headlong hurl. 

listening, the doors and winnocks 

rattle, 
1 thought me on the ourie cattle, 
Or &iUy sheep, wha bide this brattle 

O' winter war, [sprattle. 
And through the drift, deep-lairing 

Beneath a scaur. 

nk happing bird, wee, helpless thing. 
That in the merry months o' spring. 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 
AVhat comes o' thee ! 



Whare wilt thou cow'r thy cluttering 
wing. 

And close thy e'e ? 
Ev'n yoxi on murd'ring errands toil'd. 
Lone from your savage homes exil'd. 
The blood-stain'd roost and sheep-cot 
spoil'd 

My heart forgets. 
While pitiless the tempest wild 
Sore on you beats. 
Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign. 
Dark muffled, view'd the dreary plain ; 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train. 

Rose in my soul. 
When on my ear this plaintive strain 
Slow, solemn, stole : — 
" Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust '. 
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost ! 
Descend ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
Not all your rage, as now united, shows 
More hard unkindness, unrelenting. 
Vengeful malice unrepenting. 
Than heaven-iUumiued man on brother man 
bestows ! 
See stern oppression's iron grip. 
Or mad ambition's gory hand. 
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip 

Woe, want, and murder o'er a land ! 
E'en in the peaceful rural vale. 
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale. 
How pamper'd Luxury, Flattery by her side, 
"The parasite empoisoning her ear, 
With all the servile wretches in the rear 
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide; 
And eyes the simple rustic hind. 
Whose toil upholds the glittering 
show, 
A creature of another kind. 
Some coarser substance, unrefined. 
Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus 
vile below. 
Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe. 
With lordly Honour's lofty brow. 
The powers you proudly own ? 
Is there beneath Love's noble name^ 
Can harbour dark the selfish aim. 

To bless himself alone ! 
Mark maiden innocence a prey 

To love-pretending snares. 
This boasted Honour turns away. 
Shunning soft Pity's rising sway, [ers ! 
Regardless of the tears and unavailing pray- 
Perhaps this hour in misery's squalid nest. 
She strains your infant to her joyless 
breast, [rocking blast 1 

And with a mother's fears shrinks at the 
Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down. 
Feel not a want but what yourselves 
create. 



EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK. 



109 



Think for a moment on his wretched fate. 
Whom friends and fortune quite disown! 
Ill satisfied keen nature's clamorous call. 
Stretched ou his straw he lays himself 
to sleep, [wall. 

While through the ragged roof and clunky 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty 
heap; 
Think on the dungeon's grim confine, 
^Miere guilt andpoor misfortune pine ! 
Guilt, erring mau, relenting view ! 
But shall thy legal rage piursue 
The wretch, already crushed low 
By cruel fortune's undeserved blow? 
AflEliction's sons are brothers in distress ; 
A brother to reheve, how exquisite the 
bhss ! " 
I hear nae mair, for chanticleer 

Shook off the poutheray snaw. 
And hailed the morning with a chee — 

A cottage-rousiug craw. 
But deep this truth impressed my 
mind — 
Through all his works abroad, 
Tlie heart benevolent and kind 
The most resembles God. 



(BpistlE h %. Xaprailt. 

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. (25.) 

April 1, 1785. 
While briers and woodbines budding green, 
And paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en. 
And morning poussie whiddin seen. 

Inspire my muse. 
This freedom in an unknown frien* 

I pray excuse. 
On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin'. 
To ca' the crack and weave our stockin' ; 
And there was muckle fun and jokin'. 

Ye need na' doubt ; 
At length we had a hearty yokin' 

At sang about. 
There was ae sang, amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 

A' to the life. 
I've scarce heard ought described sae weel. 
What gen'rous manly bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, " Can this be Pope, or Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark ?" 
They tauld me 'twas an odtl kind chiel 

About Muirkirk. 
It pat me fidgin-faiu to hear't. 
And sae about him there I spier't. 



Then a' that ken't him round dcclar'd 

He had ingine. 
That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, 

It was sae fine. 
Tliat, set hira to a pint of ale. 
And either douce or merry tale. 
Or rhymes and sangs he'd made himsel'. 

Or witty catches, 
'Tween Inverness and Teriotdale, 

He had a few matches. 
Tlien up I gat, and swoor an aith, 
Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and graith. 
Or die a cadger pownie's death 

At some dyke back 
A pint and gill I'd gie them baith 

To hear your crack. 
But, first and foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo-jingle fell ; 

Tho' rude and rough. 
Yet crooning to a body's sell, 

Does weel eneugh. 
I am nae poet, m a sense. 
But just a rliymer, hke by chance. 
And hae to learning nae pretence. 

Yet, what the matter ! 
'Wliene'er my muse does on me glance^ 

I jingle at her. 
Your critic folk may cock their nose. 
And say, " How can you e'er propose. 
You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose. 

To mak a sang ? " 
But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye're may be wrang. 
What's a' your jargon o' your schools. 
Your Latin names for horns and stools; 
If honest nature made you fools. 

What sairs your grammars ? 
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, 

Or knappin-hammers. 
A set o' dull, conceited hashes. 
Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
They gang in stirks, and come out asses, 

Plain truth to speak ; 
And syne they think to climb Parnassus 

By dint o' Greek ! 
Gie me ae spark o' nature's fire 1 
That's a' the learning I desire ; 
Then tho' I drudge tliro' dub and mire 

At pleugh or cart. 
My muse, tho' hamely in attire. 

May touch the heart. 
Oh for a spunk o' Allan's glee. 
Or Fergusson's the baiild and slee, 
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be. 

If I can hit it ! 
That would be lear eneugh for me. 

If I could get it 1 



110 



BURNS'S POETICAL "WORKS. 



Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
Tho' real friends I believe are few. 
Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 

I'se no insist, 
But gif ye want ae friend that's true, 

I'm on your list. 

I winna blaw about mysel ; 

As ill I like my faults to tell ; 

But friends and folk that wish me well. 

They sometimes roose me ; 
Tho' I maun own, as monie still 

As far abuse me. 

But Mauehline race (26), or Mauchline fair, 
1 should be proud to meet you there ; 
We'se gic ae night's discharge to care. 

If we forgather. 
And hae a swap o' rhymin'-ware 

"VVi' ane anither. 

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter. 
And kirsen him wi' reekin' water ; 
Syne we'll sit down and tak our whitter. 

To cheer our lieart ; 
And, faith, we'se be acquainted better 

Before we part. 

Awa ye selfish war'ly race, 

Wha think that havins, sense, and grace, 

Ev'n love aud friendship, should give place 

To catch the plack ! 
I dimia like to see your face. 

Nor hear your crack. 

But ye whom social pleasure charms. 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms. 
Who hold your being on the terms, 

" Each aid the others." 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms. 

My friends, my brothers ! 

But, to conclude my lang epistle. 

As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ; 

Twa lines frae you wad gar me rissle, 

Who am, most fervent. 
While I can either sing or whissle. 

Your friend and servant. 



2^n llii! §mt. 

April 21, 1785. 

While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake. 
And pownies reek in plengh or braik. 
This hour on e'enin's edge I take. 

To own I'm debtor. 
To honest-hearted, auld Jjapraik, 

For his kind letter. 

Forjesket sair, wi' weary legs, 
Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs. 
Or dealing thro' amansr the uaigs 



Their ten hours' bite. 
My awkwart muse sair pleads and begs 

I woidd na write. 
The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie. 
She's saft at best, and something lazy. 
Quo' she, " Ye ken, we've been sae busy. 

This month and mair, 
That trouth, my head is grown right dizzier 

And something sair." 

Her dowff excuses pat me mad : 

" Conscience," says I, " ye thowless jaj I 

I'll write, aud that a hearty blaud, 

This vera night ; 
So dinna ye affront your trade. 

But rhyme it right. 
Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, 
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Roose you sae weel for your deserts. 

In terms sae friendly. 
Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts. 

And thank him kindly?" 
Sae I gat paper in a blink. 
And down gaed stumpie in the ink ; 
Quoth I, " before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close it ; 
And if ye winna mak it cUnk, 

By Jove I'll prose it ! * 
Sae I've begun to scra\vl, but whether 
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither. 
Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, 

Let time mak proof ; 
But I shall scribble down some blether 

Just clean aff-loof 
My worthy friend, ne'er grudge and carp, 
Tho' fortune use you hard and sharp ; 
Come, kittle up your moorland-harp 

Wi' gleesome touch ; 
Ne'er mind how fortune waft and warp — 

She's but a b-tch ! 

She's gien me monie a jirt and fleg. 
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig ; 
But, by the L — d, tho' I should beg 

'\'\^i' lyart pow, 
I'll laugh, and sing, and shake my leg. 

As lang's I dow ! 
Now comes the sax and twentieth simmer, 
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer. 
Still persecuted by the limmer 

Frae year to year ; 
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, 

I, Rob, am here. 
Do ye envy the city gent, 
Behint a kist to lie and sklent. 
Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent 

And muckle wame. 
In some bit brugh to represent 

A bailie's name ? 



TO WILLIAM SflMPSON]. 



Ill 



Or is't the pauglity, feudal Thane, 
AVi' ruffl'd sark aiul glancing cane, 
Wha thinks hiuiscl nae sheep-shank bane. 

But iurilly stalks. 
While caps and bonnets all' are taen. 

As by lie walks ? 
Oh Thou wha gies us each guid gift 1 
Gie me o' wit and sense a lift. 
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift. 

Thro' Scotland wide; 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, 

lu a' their pride ! 
Were this the charter of our state, 
" On pain' o' hell be rich and great," 
Damnation then would be our fate. 

Beyond remead ; 
But, thanks to Heav'n, that's no the gate 

We learn our creed. 
For thus the royal mandate ran. 
When first the human race began, 
" The social, friendly, honest man, 

"Whate'er he be, 
'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan. 

And none but he 1 " 
Oh mandate glorious and divine ! 
The followers o' the ragged Nine, 
Poor thoughtless devils yet may shine 

In glorious light. 
While sordid sons o' jNIammon's line 

Are dark as night. 
Tho' here they scrape, and squeeze, and growl. 
Their worthless nievfu' of a soul 
May in some future carcase howl. 

The forest's fright ; 
O' in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light. 
Then may Lapraik and Burns arise. 
To reach their native kindred skies, 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, and joys. 

In some mild sphere. 
Still closer knit in friendship's ties 

Each passing year ! 



^n ll'illiam ?[iinji5nn], 

aCIIILTREE. (27) 

Mny, 1785, 
X UAT your letter, winsome W^illie; 
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I wad he silly. 

And unco vain. 
Should I believe, my coaxiu' billie. 

Your flalterin' strain. 
But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
1 sudbe laith totliink ye liinted 
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 



IV 



On my poor Musie ; 
Tho' in sic phraisin' terms ye'vepenn'd it 

I scarcely excuse ye. 
My senses wad be in a creel. 
Should I but dare a hope to sped, 
Wi' Allan, or wi Gilbertfield, 

The braes o' fame ; 
Or Fergusson, the writer cliiel, 

A deathless name. 

(Oh Fergusson ! thy glorious parts 

111 suited law's dry musty arts ! 

My curse upon your w hunstaue hearts. 

Ye E'librugh gentry ; 
The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes 

Wad stow'd his pantry !) 

Yet when a tale comes i' my head. 

Or lassies gie my heart a screed. 

As whiles they're like to be my dead, 

(Oh sad disease !) 
I kittle up my rustic reed ; 

It gies me ease. 
Aiild Coila, now, may fidge fu' fain. 
She's gotten poets o' her ain, 
Chiels wha their chanters winnahaJn, 

But tune their lays, • 

Till echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-sung praise 
Nae poet thought her worth his while. 
To set her name in measur'd style ; 
She lay like some unkeu'd-of-isle 

Beside New Holland, 
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil 

Besouth iMagellan. 
Ramsay and famous Fergusson 
Gied Forth and Tay a bft aboou 
Yarrow and Tweed, to monie a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings. 
While Irwin, Lugor, Ayr, and Boon, 

NaeLody sings. 
Til' missus. Tiber, Thames, and Seine, 
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line; 
But, Willie, set your fit to mine. 

And cock your crest. 
We'll gar our streams and burnies shine 

Up wi' the best ! 
AVe'U sing auld Coila's plains and fells, 
Iler moors red-brown wi' heather bells. 
Her banks and braes, her dens and dells, 

Where glorious ■\^■allace 
Aft bure the gree, as story tell, 

Frae southron billies. 

At AA'allare' name what Scottish blood 
But boils up in spring-tide flood ' 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side. 
Still pressing onward, red-wat shod, 

Or glorious died ! 



itz 



liUllNS'S rOETICAL ^'OlilvS. 



Oh sweet are Coila's haii<;hs and woods, 
When lintwhites chant aniang the buds, 
Aud jinkin' hares, in amorous whids. 

Their loves enjoy, 
While thro' tlie braes tlie crushat croods 

With wailfu' cry ! 

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 
WHien winds rave thro' the naked tree ; 
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary gray : 
Or blinding drifts wild furious flee, 

Dark'ning the day ! 

Oh nature ! a' thy shows and forms 
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! 
Whether the summer kindly warms, 

Wi' life and light. 
Or winter howls, in gusty storms. 

The lang, dark night ! 

The muse, nae poet ever fand her. 
Till by himsel he learn'd to wander, 
Adown some trotting burn's meander. 

And no think lang ; 
Oh sweet, to stray and pensive ponder, 

A heart-felt sang ! 

The war'ly race may drudge and drive, 
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch and strive ; 
Let me fair nature's face descrive. 

And I, wi' pleasure. 
Shall let the busy grumbling hive 

Bum owre their treasure. 

Fareweel, " my rlijTne-composing brither !" 
We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither : 
Now let us lay our heads thegither, 

lu love fraternal ; 
May envy wallop in a tether. 

Black fiend, infernal ! 

While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes : 
While moorlan' heads like guid fat braxies ; 
While terra firma on her axis 

Diurnal turns. 
Count ou a friend, in faith and practice. 

In Robert Burns. 

POSTSCRIPT. 
My memory's no worth a preen ; 
I had amaist forgotten clean. 
Ye bade me write you what they mean. 

By this New Light, 
"Bout which our herds sae aft hae beeu 

Maist like to fight. 

In days when mankind were but callans 

At grammar, logic, and sic talents. 

They took nae pains their speech to balance. 

Or rules to gie. 
But spak their thoughts in plain braid lallana. 

Like yL)U or me. 



In thae auld times, they thought the mooB, 
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon. 
Wore by degrees, till lier last roon 

Uaed past their viewing. 
And shortly after she was done, 

They gat a new one. 

This past for certain — undisputed ; 
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it. 
Till chiels gat up and wad confute it. 

And ca'd it wrang ; 
And muckle din there was about it, 

Baith loud aud lang. 

Some herds, well learn'd upo' the beuk. 
Wad threap auld folk the think misteuk; 
For 'twas the auld moon turned a neuk. 

And out o' sight, 
And backlins-comin', to the leuk 

She grew mair bright. 

This was denied — it was affirmed ; 

The herds and hirsels were alarmed : 

The rev'rend grey-beards rav'd and storm'd 

That beardless laddies 
Should tliiuk they better were inform 'd 

Than their auld daddies. 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 

Frae words and aiths to clours and nicks. 

And mony a fallow gat his licks, 

Wi' hearty crunt ; 
And some, to learn them for their tricks, 

Were haug'd and brunt. 

This game was play'd in monie lands. 
And Auld Light caddies bure sic hands. 
That, faith, the youngsters took the sands 

W'i' nimble shanks, 
Till lairds forbade, by strict commands. 

Sic bluidy pranks. 

But New Light herds gat sic a cowe, 
Folk thought them ruin'd stick-and-stowe. 
Till now amaist on every knowe, 

Ye'll find ane plac'd; 
And some their New-Light fair avow. 

Just quite barefac'd. 

Nae doubt the Auld Light flocks are bleatin'j 
Their zealous herds are vex'd and sweatin'; 
Mysel' I've even seen them greetin' 

Wi' girnin' spite, 
To hear the moon sae sadly lied on 

By word and write. 

But shortly they will cowe the loons ! 
Some Auld Light herds in neebor towns 
Are mind't in thinns they ca' balloons. 

To tak a flight, 
Aud stay ae month among the moons 

Aud see them right. 



DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK. 



113 



Guid observation they ■will gie them ; 

Ami when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e 

llieni. 
The hindmost shair'd, they'll fetch it wi'them. 

Just i' their pouch, 
And when the New Light billies see them, 

1 think they'll crouch ! 

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter 

Is naething but a " moonshine matter;" 

But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter 

In logic tulzie, 
I hope we bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic brulzie. 



Dratl; ani Dr. SJnrnlinak. 

A TRUE STORY. (28) 

Some hooks are lies frae end to end. 
And some great lies were never penn'd ; 
E'en ministers they hae been keiiu'd. 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing whid at times to vend. 

And nail't wi' Scripture. 
But this that I am gaun to tell, 
Which lately on a night befell, 
Is just as true's the dcil's in hell 

Or Dubhn city : 
Tliat e'er he ne nearer comes oursel 

's a muckle pity. 
The clachan yiU had made me canty— 
I was na fou, but just had plenty ; 
1 stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent aye 

To free the ditches ; 
And hillocks, stanes, and bushes kenned aye 

Frae ghaists and witches. 
The rising moon began to glow'r 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre : 
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r, 

I set mysel ; 
But whether sha had three or four, 

I could na tell. 
I was come round about the hill. 
And todliu' dov^Ti on Willie's mill (29), 
Setting my staff wi' all my skill. 

To keep me sicker ; 
The' leeward whyles, against my wUl, 

I took a bicker. 
I there wi' something did forgather. 
That put mc in an eerie switlier ; 
An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shoutlier. 

Clear-dangling, hang ; 
A thrce-taed leister on the ither 

Lay, large and lang. 
Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa. 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw. 
For fient a wamc it had ava ; 



And then, its shanks. 
They were as thin, as sharp and sma'. 

As cheeks o' brauks. 
"Guid e'en," quo' I; "Friend, hae ye been 
When other folk are busy sawin' ? " [m.i\vm'. 
It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan', 

But naething spak ; 
At length says I, "Friend, whare j'e gaun. 

Will ye go back ?" 
It spake rigiit howe — " My name is Death, 
But be na Hey'd." Quoth I, " Guid faith, 
Ye're maybe come to stap my breath; 

But tent me, billie — 
I red ye w-eel, tak care o' skaith. 

See, there's a guUy !" 
"Guidman," quo'he, "put up your whittle, 
I'm no designed to try its mettle; 
But if I did, I wad be kittle 

To be mislear'd ; 
I wad na mind it, no, that spittle 

Out-owre my beard." 
" Weel, weel !" says I, "a bargain be't; 
Come, gies your hand, and sae we're grce't; 
We'll ease our shanks and tak a seat- 
Come, gics your news ; 
This while ye hae been mony a gate. 

At mony a house." 
" Ay, ay !" quo' he, and shook his head, 
" It's e en a lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread. 

And choke the breath : 
Folk raatui do something for their bread, 

And sae maun Death. 
" Sax thousand years are near hand fled 
Sin' I was to the butclung bred. 
And mony a scheme in vain's been laicl. 

To stap or scaur me ; 
Till ane Hornbook's taen up the trade. 

And faith he'll waur me. 
" Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the clachan, 
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuclian ! 
He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchan(3((), 

And ither chaps. 
The weans hand out their lingers laughin'. 

And pouk my hips. 
"See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart. 
They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart; 
But Doctor Hornbook wi' his art 

And cursed skill. 
Has made them botli no worth a f — t; 

Damn'd haet they'll kill. 

" 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, 

I threw a noble throw at ane ; 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain; 

But deil-ma-care, 
It just play' d dirl on the bane. 

But did uae mair. 



114 



BURKS' S POETICAL WORKS. 



" Hombrook was by wi' ready art. 
And liad sae fortified the part. 
That when I looked to my dart, 

It was sae blunt, 
I'ient haet o't wad liae pierc'd the heart 

Of a kail-runt. 

"I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 
I nearhand cowpit wi' my hurry. 
But yet the bauld apothecary 

Withstood tlie shock ; 
I might as weel hae tried a quarry 

0' hard whin rock. 

"And then a' doctor's saws and whittles, 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, and metals, 
A' kinds o' boxes, nmgs, and bottles. 

He's sure to hae ; 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

As A B C. 

"Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees; 
True sal-marinum o'the seas; 
The farina of beans and peas. 

He has't in plenty; 
Aqua-fontis, what you please, 

He can content ye. 

" Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, 

Urinus spiritus of capons ; 

Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, 

Distill'd per se ; 
Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings. 

And mony mae." 

"Waesme for Johnny Ged's Hole (31) now,' 
Quo' I ; "if that thae news be true, 
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, 

Sae white and bonny, 
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi'the plew; 

They'll ruin Johnny !" 

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh. 
And says, " Ye need na yoke the pleugh, 
Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh, 

Tak ye nae fear : 
They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh 

In twa-three year. 

"Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death. 
By loss o' blood or want o' breath, 
This night I'm free to tak my aith. 

That Hornbook's skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith. 

By drap and pill. 

"An honest wabster to his trade, 

Wliase wife's twanieves were scarce well-bred. 

Gat tippence worth to mend her head. 

When it was sair; 
The wife slade cannie to her bed. 

But ne'er spak mair. 



* A countra laird had taen the batts. 
Or rome curmurring in his guts ; 
His only son for Hornbook sets. 

And pays him well — 
The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets. 

Was laird himsel. 

" Tliat's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way} 
Thus goes he on from day to day. 
Thus does he poison, kill, and slay, 

An's weel paid for't; 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey 

Wi' his curs'd dirt : 

" But hark ! I'll tell you of a plot. 
Though dinna ye be speaking o't ; 
I'll nail the self-conceited sot 

As dead's a herrin' : 
Neist time wc meet, I'll wad a groat. 

He gets his fairin' ! " 

But just as he began to tell, 

Tlie aidd kirk-hanimer strak the bell 

Some wee short hour ayont the twal. 

Which rais'd us baith : 
I took the way that pleas'd mysel'. 

And sae did Death 



Ijri 2Jalij /air. 



A robe of seeming truth and trust 

Hid crafty observation ; 
And secret hunsr, with poison'd crust, 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A mask that like the gorget show'd, 

Dye-varying on the pigeon ; 
And for a rnantle large and broad, 

He wrapt him in Religion. 

Hypocrisy a-la-mode. (11,) 

Upon a simmer Sunday morn. 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn. 

And snuff the cauler air, 
The rising sun owre Galston muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was ghntin ' ; 
Tlie hares were hirplin' down the furs. 

The lav'rocks they were chantia' 
Fu' sweet that day. 

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad. 

To see a scene sae gay, 
Tliree hizzies, early at the road. 

Cam skelpin' up the way ; 
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black. 

But ane wi' lyart lining ; 
The third, that gaed a-wee a-back. 

Was in the fashion shining, 
Fu' gay that day 




HAI,L')WF,P,N 



THE HOLY FAIR. 



lU 



The twa appcar'd like sisters twin. 

In feature, form, and claes ; 
Their visage wither'd, laiig, and thin. 

And sour as ony slaes : 
Tlie third cam up, liap-step-an'-lowp. 

As hght as ony lambie. 
And \\ i' a cnrchie low did stoop. 

As soon as e'er she saw rae, 

Fu' kind that day. 

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, " Sweet lass, 

I think ye seem to ken me ; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonny fiice. 

But yet I canna name ye." 
Quo' she, and laughiu' as she spak. 

And taks me by the hands, 
"Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feek. 

Of a' the ten commands 

A screed some day. 

"My name is Fun — your cronie dear. 

The nearest friend ye hae; 
And this is Superstition here. 

And that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to iMauchline holy fair. 

To s]iend an hour in daffin' : 
Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair. 

We will get famous laughin' 

At them this day." 

Qucth I "With a' my heart, I'll do't; 

I '11 get my Sunday's sark on, 
And meet you on the holj' spot — 

Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin ' ! " 
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time. 

And soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad, from side to side, 

Wi' monie a wearie body* 

in droves that day. 

Here farmers gash, in ridin' graith 

Gaed hoddin by their cottars ; 
Tliere, swankies young, in braw braid-claith. 

Are springin' o'er the gutters. 
Tlie lasses, skelpin" barefit, thrang, 

In silks and scarlets glitter; 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang. 

And farls bak'd wi' butter, 

Fu' crump that day. 

When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glow'r black bonnet throws. 

And we maun draw our tippence, 
Tlien in we go to see tVie show ; 

On ev'ry side they're gath'rin'. 
Some carrying dails, some chairs, and stools. 

And some are busy blcthriu' 

Kight loud that day. 

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 
And screen our country gentry. 



There, racer, Jess (33), and twa-tliree wh-ret 

Are bhnkin' at the entry. 
Here sits a raw of tittlin' jauds, 

V,'i' heaving breast and bare nech, 
And there a batch o' wabster lads. 

Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock 
For fun this day. 

Here sum are thinlcin' on their sina, 

And some upo' their claes ; 
Ane curses feet that fyi'd his sliina, 

Anither sighs and prays : 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw'd-up grace-proud faces; 
On that a set o'chaps at watch, 

Tlnrang winkin' on the lasses 
To chairs that day. 

Oh happy is that man and blest ! 

(Xae wonder that it pride him !) 
Wha's ain dear lass that he likes besf^ 

Comes clinkin' down beside him ! 
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back. 

He sweetly does compose him ; 
Which, by degrees, slips round her nech 

Au's loof upon her bosom, 

Unkeun'd that day. 

Now a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation : 
For Moodie speels the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o' d-mn-tion. (34) 
Should Hcirnie, as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' God present him. 
The vera sight o' Moodie's face, 

To's ain het hame had sent him 
\\'i' fright that day. 

Hear how he clears the points o' faith 

Wi rattlin' and wi' thurapin' ! 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath. 

He's starapiu' and he's jurapiu' ! 
His lengthened chin, his turn'd-up suoui, 

His eldritch squeal and gestures. 
Oh, how they fire the heart devout. 

Like cantharidian plasters, 
On sic a day ! 

But hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice: 

There's peace and rest nae langer ; 
For a' the real judges rise. 

They canna sit for anger. 
Smith opens out his cauld harangues (35), 

On practice and on morals ; 
And aff the godly pour in thrangs. 

To gie the jars and barrels 
A lift that day. 

Wliat signifies his barren shine. 

Of moral powr's and reason ? 
His English style and gesture fine 

Are a' clean out o' season. 



lie 



JJUKNS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 



Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan heathen. 
The moral man lie does define. 

But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that day. 
In gnid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poison'd nostrum ; 
For Peebles, frae the water-fit (3G), 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he's got the word o' God, 

And meek and mim has view'd it. 
While Common Sense (37) has ta'en the 
road, 

And aff, and up the Cowgate (38), 
Fast, fast, that day. 

Wee iMiller (39) neist the guard reUevcs, 

And orthodoxy raiblcs, 
Tho' in his heart he weel believes, 

And thinks it auld wives' fables; 
Bnt, faith ! the birkie wants a mause. 

So, cannily he hums them ; 
Altho' his carnal wit and sense 

Like hattlins-ways o'ercomes him 
At times that day. 
Now butt and ben the change-house fills, 

Wi' yill-caiip commentators ; 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills. 

And there the piut-stoup clatters ; 
While thick and thraug, and loud and 
lang, 

Wi' logic and wi' Scripture, 
They raise a din, that, in the end. 

Is like to breed a rupture 

O' wrath that day. 
Leeze me on drink ! it gies us mair 

Tliau either school or college : 
It kindles wit, it waiikens lair. 

It pangs us fou o' knowledge. 
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep. 

Or oiiy stronger potion. 
It never fails, on drinking deep. 

To piltle up our notion 

By night or day. 

The lads and lasses, blythely bent 

To mind baith saul and body. 
Sit round the table weel content. 

And steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, and that ane's leuk. 

They're making observations ; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk. 

And formin' assignations 

To meet some day. 
But now the L — d's ain trumpet touts. 

Till a' the hills are rairin'. 
And echoes back return the shouts — 

Black Russell (40) is na sparin' : 
His piercing words, like Highlau' swords. 

Divide the joints and marrow ; 



His talk o' hell, whare devils dwell. 

Our vera sauls does harrow (41) 

Wi' fright that day. 

A vast, nnbottom'd, boundless pit, 

Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane, 
Wha's ragin' flame, and scorchin' heat, 

AVad melt the hardest whun-stauel 
The half asleep start up wi' fear. 

And think they hear it roariu'. 
When presently it does appear 

'Twas bui some neebor snoria' 
Asleep that day. 

'Twad be owre long a tale, to tell 

How nionie stories past. 
And how they crowded to the yill 

When they were a' dismist : 
How drink gaed round, in cogs and caups^ 

Amang the furras and benches : 
And cheese and bread, frae women's lape^ 

Was dealt about in lunches. 

And dauds that day. 

In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife. 

And sits down by the fire. 
Syne draws her kebbuck and her knife j 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld guidraen, about the grace, 

Frae side to side they bother. 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays. 

And gi'es them't like a tether, 
Fa' lang that day. 

Waesuck ! for him that gets nae Ias% 

Or lasses that hae nathing ! 
Sma' need has he to say a grace. 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
Oh wives be mindfu' ance yoursel 

How bonny lads ye wanted. 

And dinna, for a kebbuck-heel. 

Let lasses be affronted 

On sic a day ! 

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin' tow. 

Begins to jow and croon ; 
Some swagger hame the best they dow. 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink. 

Till lassess trip their shoon : 
Wi' faith and hope, and love and drink. 

They're a' in famous tune 

For crack that day. 

How monie hearts this day converts 

O' sinners and o' lasses ! 
Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gaiiQ 

A3 saft as ony flesh is. 
Tliere' s some are fou o' love divine ; 

There's some are fou' o' brandy; 
And many jobs that day begin 

May end in houghmagandy. 
Some ither day. 



THE ORDINATION. 



117 



Cljt i\tiinatinii. 

" For sense they little owe to frup-al Ilcav'n — 
To please the mob they hide the little giv'n." 
(42) 

Kilmarnock wabsters fidge and claw. 

And pour your creesliie nations ; 
And ye wha leather rax and draw. 

Of a' denominations, (43) 
Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane and a'. 

And there tak up your stations ; 
Then afF to Begbie's (44) in a raw. 

And pour divine libations. 

For joy this day. 
Curst Common Sense, that imp o' hell, 

Cam in v i' JIaggie Lauder (45) ; 
But Oliphant aft made her yell. 

And Russell sair misca'd her ; 
This day M taks the flail, 

And he's the boy will bland her ! 
He'll clap a shangaa on her fail. 

And set the bairns to daud her. 
Wi' dirt this day. 
Mak haste and turn king David owTe, 

And lilt wi' holy clangor ; 
0' double verse come gie us four. 

And skirl up the Bangor : 
This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, 

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her. 
For Heresy is in her pow'r. 

And gloriously she'll whang her 
AVi' pith this day. 
Come, let a proper text be read. 

And touch it aif wi' vigour. 
How graceless Ham (46) leugh at his dad. 

Which made Canaan a nigger ; 
Or Phiueas (47) drove the murdering blade, 

AVi' wh-re-abhorring rigour ; 
Or Zipporah (48), the scauldiu' jad, 

"Was like a bluidy tiger 

I' th' inn that day. 
Tliere, try his mettle on the creed. 

And bind him down wi' caution, 
That stipend is a carnal weed 

He taks but for the fashion ; 
And gie him o'er the flock, to feed. 

And punish each transgression ; 
Especial, rams that cross the breed, 

Gie them sufficient threshin'. 

Spare them nae day. 
Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail. 

And toss thy horns fu' canty ; 
Nae mair thou'lt rowte out-owre the dale. 

Because thy pasture's scanty; 
For lapfu's large o' gospel kail 

Shall fill thy crib in plenty. 
And runts o' grace the pick and wale. 

No g''en by way o' dainty. 
But ilka day. 



Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep, 

To think upon our Zion ; 
And hing our nddles up to sleep. 

Like baby-clouts a-dryin' ; 
Come, screw the pegs, wi' tunefu' cheap 

And o'er the thairms be tryin' ; 
Oh, rare ! to see our clbucks wheep. 

And a' like lamb-tails flyin' 

Fu' fast this day ; 

Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' aim. 

Has shor'd the Kirk's uadoia'. 
As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn. 

Has proven to its ruin : 
Our patron, honest man ! Glencairn, 

He saw mischief was brewiu' ; 
And like a godly elect bairn 

He's wal'd us out a true ane. 

And sound this day. 

Now, Robertson (49), harangue nae mair 

But steek your gab for ever : 
Or try the wicked town of Ayr, 

For there they'll think you cleverj 
Or, nae reflection on your lear, 

Ye may commence a shaver ; 
Or to the Netherton (50) repair. 

And turn a carpet-weaver 

Aff-haud this day. 

Mutrie (51) and you were just a match, 

'W'e never had sic twa drones : 
Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch. 

Just like a winkin' baudrons : 
And aye he catched the tither wretch. 

To fry them in liis caudrons : 
But now his honour maun detach, 

Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons. 
Fast, fast this day. 
See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes 

She's swingein through the city; 
Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she play3 1 

I vow it's unco pretty : 
Tliere, Learning, w iih his Greekish face^ 

Grunts out some Latin ditty. 
And Common Sense is gaun, she says. 

To mak to Jamie Beattie (52) 
Her plant this day. 
But there's Morality himsel'. 

Embracing all opinions ; 
Hear, how he gies the tither yell. 

Between his twa companions ; 
See, how she peels the skin and fell. 

As ane were peclin' onions ! 
Now there — they're packed aff to hell, 

And banish'd our dominions. 

Henceforth this day. 
Oh, happy day ! rcj(jice, rejoice 1 

Come bouse about the porter ! 
Jlorality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair tind quarter : 



in 



liURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



M , Russell, are the boys. 

That Heresy can torture : 
They 11 gie her on a rape a hoyse. 

And covve her measure shorter 

By th' head some day. 
Come, brins: the tither mutchkin in. 

And here's, for a conclusion, 
To every New Light (53) mother's soil, 

From this time forth. Confusion : 
If niair they deave us wi' their din. 

Or Patronage intrusion. 
Well light a spunk, and every skia 

We'll rin them aff in fusion. 
Like oil some day. 



Cn %mn ImitI;. (54) 

" Friendship ! mysterious cement of tlie soul ! 
Sweet'uer of life, and solder of society ! 
1 owe thee much ! " — Blair. 

Dear Smith, the slee'est, paukie thief, 
That e'er attempted stealth or rief. 
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 

Owre human hearts; 
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 
For me, I swear by sun and moou. 
And ev'ry star that blinks aboon, 
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon 

Just gaun to see you ; 
And ev'ry ither pair that's done, 

Mair ta'en I'm wi' you. 
That auld capricious carlin. Nature, 
To mak amends for scrimpit stature. 
She's turn'd you aff, a human Creature 

On her first plan ; 
And in her freaks, on every feature 

She's wrote, the Man. 
Just now I've ta'en the fit o' ryhme, 
Jly barmie noddle's working prime. 
My fancy yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon : 
Hae ye a leisure-moment's time. 

To hear what's comin' ! 
Some rhyme a neighbour's name to lash ; 
Some rhyme (vain thought) for needfu* 

cash ; 
Some rhyme to court the country clash. 

And raise a din ; 
For me, an aim I never fash — 

I rhyme for fun. 
The star that rules my luckless lot. 
Has fated me the russet coat. 
And damn'd my fortune to tlie groat ; 

But in requit. 
Has blest me wi' a random shot 

O' countra wit. 



This while my notion's ta'en a sklent. 
To try my fate in guid black prent ; 
But still the mair I'm that way bent. 

Something cries " Hoolie ! 
I red you, honest man, tak tent ! 

Ye'll shaw your foUy. 

There's itiier poets much your betters. 
Far seen iu Greek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought they had ensur'd theii 
debtors 

A' future ages ; 
Now moths deform in shapeless tatters. 

Their unknown pages." 

Tlien farewell hopes o' laurel-boughs. 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 

Are whistling thrang. 
And teach the lanely heights and howes 

My rustic sang. 

I'll wander on, with tentless heed 
How never-halting moments speed. 
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread; 

Then, all unknown, 
I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead. 

Forgot and gone ! 

But why o' death begin a tale ? 

Just now we're living sound and hale. 

Then top and maintop crowd the sail. 

Heave care o'er side ! 
And large before enjoyment's gale. 

Let's tak the tide. 

This life, sae far's I understand. 
Is a' enchanted fairy land, 
WHiere pleasure is the magic wand. 

That, wielded right, 
ilaks hours like minutes, hand in hand, 

Dance by fu' light. 

The magic wand then let us wield; 
For, ance that five-and-forty's speel'd. 
See, crazy, weary, joyless eikl, 

Wi' wrinkl'd face. 
Comes hostin', hirplin' owre the field, 

Wi' creepin' pace. 

■\Vhen ance life's day draws near the 

gloamin'. 
Then fareweel vacant careless roarain' ; 
And fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin', 

And social noise ; 
And fareweel dear, deluding woman I 

The joy of joys ! 

Oh life ! how pleasant in thy morning. 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning I 
Cold-pausing caution's lesson scorning, 

W^e frisk away. 
Like school -boys, at th' expected warning, 

To joy and play. 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 



119 



Wo >>. iuiiler there, we wander here. 
We eye the rose upon the brier, 
Unmindful that the thorn is near, 

Among: the leaves ! 
And tho' the puny wound appear. 

Short while it grieves. 
Some, lucky, find a (low'ry spot, 
! for which they never toil'd or swat ; 
They drink the sweet and eat the fat. 

But care or pain ; 
And, haply, eye the barren hnt 

With high disdain. 

With steady aim some Fortune chase; 
Keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace ; 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, tliey urge the race. 

And seize the prey : 
Tlien cannie, in some cozie place. 

They close the day. 

And others', like your humble servan', 
Poor wights ! nae rules nor roads observin'; 
To right or left, eternal swer\'iu', 
j They zig-zag on ; 

Till curst with age, obscure and starvin,' 
They aften groan. 

Alas ! what bitter toil and straining — 
I But truce with peevish, poor complaining! 
Is fortune's fickle Luna waning ? 
E'en let her gang ! 
Beneath what light she has remaining, 
Let's sing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door. 

And kneel, "Ye Pow'rs," and warm implore, 

"Tho' I should wander terra o'er. 

In all her climes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more, 

Aye rowth o' rhymes. 

Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, 
Till icicles hing frae tiieir beards ; 
Gie' tine braw claes to fine life guards, 

And maids of honour I 
And yill and whisky gie to cairds, 

Until they scouuer. 

A title, Dempster merits it ; 
A garter gie to Willie Pitc ; 
Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, 

In cent, per cent. 
But give me real, sterliug wit. 

And I'm content. 

While ye are pleased to keep me hale, 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail, 

Wi' cheerfu' face. 
As lang's the muses diinia fijil 

To say the grace." 

An anxious e'c. I never throws 
Behiut my lug or by my nose ; 



I jouk beneath misfortune's blows 

As weel's I may : 
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose^ 

I rhyme away. 
Oh ye douce folk, that live by rnli?. 
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, 
Corapar'd wi' you — oh fool ! fool ! fool I 

How much unlike ; 
Yoiu: heart's are just a standing pool. 

Your lives a dyke ! 
Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces^ 
In your unletter'd nameless faces ! 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray. 
But gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 
Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wiso; 
Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 
The hairum-scairum, rara-stam boys, 

Tlie rattling squad : 
I see you upward cast your eyes — 

— Ye ken the road. 
A^Tiilst I — but I shall baud me there — 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where — 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair. 

But quat my sang. 
Content wi' you to mak a pair, 

\Miare'er I gang. 



Qilip Sallii Sopggars.— a (Cantata. (55) 

RECITATIVO. 

When lyart leaves bestrew the yird. 
Or wavering like the bauckie-bird. 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast ; 
AMien hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyta 
And infant frosts begin to bite. 

In hoary cranreuch drest ; 
Ae night at e'en a merry core 

O' randie, gangrel bodies. 
In Poosie Nancy's held the splore. 
To drink their orra duddies : 
Wi" qualtiug and laugliing, 

Tliey ranted and they sangj 
Wi' jumping and thumping, 
The vera girdle rang. 

First, neist the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sait weel brac'd wi' mealy bags. 

And knapsack a' in order ; 
ITis doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usq\iel)ae and blankets warm — 

She bliuket on her sodger : 
And aye he gies the tozie drab 

The tithor skelpin' kiss. 
While she held up her greedy gab 

Just like an aumos dish. tMi 



12 



120 



BURNS' S POETICAL 'WORKS. 



Ilk sm;ick still, did crack still, 
Just like a cadii-pr's whip, 

Then staiTfjeriii^ and swaggering 
He roared this ditty up. 



Tune — Soldiers' Joy. 
I am a son of Mars, who have been in many 

wars, [come ; 

And show my cuts and scars wherever I 
This here was for a wench, aud that other in 

a trench, [the drum. 

Wlien welcoming the French at the sound of 

Lai de daudle, &e. 
My 'prenticeship I past where my leader 

breath'd his last, [of Abram (57) ; 

When the bloody die was cast on the heights 
I served out my trade when the gallant game 

was play'd, [sound of the drum. 

And the Morro (58) low was laid at the 

Lai, de daudle, &c. 
I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating 

batt'ries (59), [limb ; 

And there I left for witness an arm and a 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot (GO) 

to head me, [drum. 

I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of a 

Lai de daudle, &x. 
And now the' I must beg with a wooden arm 

and leg, [bum. 

And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my 
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and 

my callet, 
As when 1 us'd in scarlet to follow a drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 
■\VTiat tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the 

winter shocks, [a home, 

Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for 
When the tother bag I sell, and the tother 

bottle tell, [a drum. 

I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of 
Lai de daudle, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

He ended ; and the kebars sheuk, 

Aboon the chorus roar ; 
While frighted rattons backward leuk. 

And seek the benmost bore ; 
A fairy fiddler frae the neuk. 

He skirl d out " Encore !" 
But up arose the martial chuck. 

And laid the loud uproar. 

AIR. 

ToNK — Soldier Laddie. 

I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when. 
And still my delight is in proper young men; 



Some one of a troop of dragoons was my 

daddie, 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 
The first of my loves was a swaggering blade. 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 
His leg was so tight, aud his cheek was so 

ruddy. 
Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 
But the godly old chaplain, left him in the 
lurch, [church ; 

The sword I forsook for the sake of the 
He ventur'd the soul, and I risk'd the body — 
'Twas then I prov'd false to mv sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal, denial, &c. 
Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot. 
The regiment at large for a husband I got ; 
From the gilded spontoou to the fife I was 

ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie 

Sing, Lal, de lal, &c. 
But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, 
Till I met my old boy at Cunningham fair ; 
His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy. 
My heart it rejoic'd at a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 
And now I have liv'd — I know not how long 
And still I can join in a cup and a song ; 
But whilst with both hands I can hold tht 

glass steady. 
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

Poor Men-y Andrew in the neuk. 

Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie; 
They uiiiid't na wha the chorus teuk, 

Between themselves they were sae busy ; 
At length wi' drink and courting dizzy. 

He stoiter'd up and made a face ; 
Then tnni'd, and laid a smack on Grizzle, 

Syne tuned his pipes wi" grave grimace. 

AIR. 

TuNK — Auld Sir Sijmon. 
Sir \^'^isdom's a fool when he's fou. 

Sir Knave is a fool hi a session : 
He's there but a 'in-entiee I trow. 

But I am a fuol by profession. 
My grannie she bought me a beuk, 

And I held awa to the school; 
I fear I my talent misteuk. 

But what will ye hae of a fool ? 
For drink I would venture my neck, 

A hizzie's the half o' my craft. 
But what could ye other expect. 

Of ane that's avowedly daft ? 



THE JOLLY BEGGAES. 



121 



I ance was tied up like a stirk; 

For civilly sweariujr and quatlin' ; 
I ance was abiis'd in the kirk, 

For toiizliiig a lass i' my daffiii. 

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport. 
Let naebody name wi' a jeer ; 

Tliere's ev'n, I'm taiitrht, i' the court 
A tumbler ca'd the premier. 

Observ'd ye, yon reverend lad 
jMaks faces to tickle the mob ; 

lie rails at our mountebank squad — 
It's rivalship just i' the job. 

And now my conclusion I'll tell, 
For faith I'm confoundedly dry ; 

The duel that's a fool for himscl', 
Gude L — d ! he's far dafter than I. 

RECITATIVO. 

Then neist outspak a raucle carlin, 
■\Vha keut fu' weel to cleek the sterling'. 
For monie a pursie she had hooked. 
And had in mony a well been ducked. 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie. 
But weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandman. 



Tune — an ye were dead Guidman. 

A HigUand lad my love was born. 
The Lawland laws he held in scorn 
But he still was faithfu' to his clan. 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 



Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman! 
Saig, ho, my braw John Highlandman ! 
There's not a lad in a' the Ian' 
Was match for my Jolm Highlandman. 

With his philabeg and tartan plaid, 
And guid dajmore down by his side, 
Tlie ladies' hearts he did trepan, 
Jly gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Slug, hey, &c. 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
And liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; 
For a I^awland face he feared none. 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

They banish'd him beyond the sea. 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my checks the pearls ran. 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, &c. 
But, oh ! they catch'd him at the last. 
And bound lum in a dungeon fast : 



My curse upon them every one, 

They'ye hang'dmy braw John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, &c. 
A"d now a widow, I must mourn, 
TKe pleasure's that will ne'er return ; 
No (!o-ufort but a hearty can, 
When I think on John Ilighhxndman. 

Sing, hey, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

A pigmy scra])er, wi' his fiddle, 

Wlia us'd at trysts and fairs to ilnddle, 

Her strappiu' limb, and gaiicy middle 

(He reach d na higher) 
Had hol'd his heartie like a riddle. 

And blawu't on fire. 

Wi' hand on haunch, and upward e'e 
He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three, 
Then in an arioso key. 

The wee Apollo 
Set off wi' allegretto glee 

His gisca solo. 



Tune- 



air. 
-Whistle oe'r the lave o't. 



Let me ryke up to dight that tear. 
And go wi' me and be my dear. 
And then you every care and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 

CHORUS. 

I am a fiddler to my trade. 
And a' the tunes that e'er I play'd. 
The sweetest still to wife or maid. 
Was whistle owre the lave o'c. 

At kirns and weddings we'se be there, 
Au<l oh ! sae nicely's we will fare ; 
^\'e'll bouse about till Daddie Care 
Sings whistle owre the lave o't. 

I am, (fee. 

Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke. 
And sun oursells about the dyke. 
And at our leisure, when ye like, 
We'll whistle ow're the lave o't. 
1 am, &c. 

But bless me wi' your heav'n o' chamub 
And while I kittle hair on thairras. 
Hunger, cauld, and a sic harms. 
May whistle ow're the lave o't. 
I am, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy aafi. 

As weel as jionr gut-scraper ; 
He taks the fiddler by the beard. 

And draws a roosty rapier — 



122 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



He swoor by a' was sw earing worth, 

To speet him like a pliver. 
Unless he wad from that time forth 

Relinquish her for ever. 
Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle-dee 

Upon his hunkers bended, 
And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face. 

And sae the quarrel ended. 
But tho' his little heart did grieve 

When round the tinkler prest her. 
He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve, 

When thus the caird address'd her ; 



TUNE- 



AIU. 

-Clout the Caudron. 



My bonny lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station : 
I've travell'd round all Christian ground 

In this my occupation : 
I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroU'd 

In many a noble squadron : 
But vain they search'd, when off I march'd 

To go and clout the caudron, 

I've tae'n the gold, &c. 
Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 

Wi' a' his noise and caprin,' 
And tak a share wi' those that bear 

The budget and the apron. 
And by that stoup, my faith and houp. 

And by that dear Kilbagie (Gl), 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 

May I ne'er weet my craigie. 

And by that stoup, &c. 

EECITATIVO. 

Tlie caird prevail'd — the unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk. 
Partly wi' love o'ercorae sae sair. 

And partly she was drunk. 
Sir Violino, with an air 

That show'd a man of spunk, 
Wish'd unison between the pair, 

And made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night. 
But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft. 

That play'd a dame a shavie. 
The fiddler raked her fore and aft, 

Ahint the chicken cavie. 
Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft, 

Tho' limping wi' the spavie. 
He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft. 

And shor'd them Dainty Davie • 
O' boot that night 
He was a care-defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed, 
Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid. 

His heart she ever miss'd it. 



He had iiae wish but — to be glad. 
Nor want but— when he thirsted; 

He had nought but — to be sad, 
And thus the JNIuse suggested 

His sang that night. 

AIR. 

Tv^B—For a' that, and a' that. 
I am a bard of no regard, 

Mi' gentle folks, and a' that : 
But Homer-like, the glowrin' byke, 

Frae town to town I draw that. 

CHORUS. 

For a' that, and a' that, 
^ And twice as muckle's a' that; 
I've lost but ane, I've twa behin,' 
I've wife eneugh for a' that. 
I never drank the Muses' stank, 

Castalia's burn and a' that ; 
But there it streams, and richly reams. 
My Hehcon I ca' that. 

For a' that, &c. 
Great love I bear to a' the fair, 

Their humble sla<e, and a' that; 
But lordly will, I hold it still 
A mortal sin to thraw that. 
For a' that, &c. 
In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 

Wi' mutual love and a' that : 
But for how lang the flee may stang. 
Let inclination law that. 

For a' that, &c. 
Their tricks and craft have put me daft. 

They've ta'en me in, and a' that ; 
But clear your decks, and here s the sex 
I like the jads for a' that. 
CHORUS. 
For a' that, and a' that. 

And twice as muckle's a' that; 
My dearest bluid, to do them guid. 
They're welcome till't for a' that. 

RECITATIVO. 

So sang the bard — and Nansie's wa's 
Shook with a wonder of applause. 

Re-echo' d from each mouth : 
They toom'd their pocks, and pawn'd Wncir 

duds. 
They scarcely left to co'er their fuds. 

To quench their lowin' drougth. 
Then o«'re again, the jovial thrang. 

The poet did request. 
To loose his pack and wale a sang, 
A ballad o' the best ; 
He rising, rejoicing. 

Between his twa Deborahs, 
Looks round him, and found them 
Impatient for the chorus. 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURX. 



123 



TrNE — Jolhj Mortals, fill your Glasse$. 
See ! the smoking' bowl before us, 

Mark our jovial rag^ged ring ! 
Round and round take up tiie chorus, 

Aud ill raptiu'es let us slug. 

CHORUS. 

A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected, 

Chui-ches built to please the priest. 

What is title? what is treasure? 

What is reputation's care ? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter how or where ! 

A fig, &c. 

With the ready trick and fable. 

Round we wander all the day; 
And at night in barn or stable. 

Hug our doxies on the hay. 
A fig, &c. 
Does the train-attended carriage 

Through the country lighter rove ? 
Does the sober bed of marriage 

Witness brighter scenes of love 1 
A fig, &c 
Life is all a variorum, 

^\ e regard not how it goes ; 
Let them cant about decorum 

Who have characters to lose. 
A tig, &c. 
Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 

Here's to all the wandering train ! 
Here's our ragged brats and callets ! 

One and all cry out — Anieii I 

A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glarious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected. 

Churches built to please the priest. 



Bm raa5 5^Iak in aimirn. (62) 

A DIRGE. 

When chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare. 
One ev'ning, as I wandered forth 

Along the banks of A>t, 
I spied a man whose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 
His face was furrow'd o'er with years. 

And hoary was his hair. 

" Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ? " 

Began the rev'rend sage : 
"Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain. 

Or youthful pleasure's rage ? 

12 



Or haply, prest with cares aud woes. 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me, to mourn 

The miseries of man. 

Tlie sun that overhangs yon moors. 

Out-spreading far and wide, 
Where hundreds labour to support 

A hauglity lordling's pride : 
I've seeu yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return. 
And ev'ry time has added proofs 

That man was made to mourn. 

Oh man, while in thy early years. 

How prodigal of time ! 
Misspending all thy precious hours. 

Thy glorious youthful prime 1 
Alternate folhes take the sway; 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force gives nature's law. 

That man was made to mourn. 

Look not alone on youthful prime, 

Or manhood's active might ; 
jNIan then is useful to his kind. 

Supported is his right ; 
Cut see him on the edge of life, 

^^'ith cares and sorrows worn ; 
Then age and want — oh ! iU-match'd paiil- 

Show mau was made to mouin. 

A few seem favourites of fate. 

In pleasure's lap carest ; 
Yet, think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, oh ! what crowds in every land. 

All wTetched and forlorn ! 
Tliro' weary life this lesson learn — 

That mau was made to mourn. 

Many and sharp the num'rous ills 

Inwoven witli our frame ! 
More pointed still we make ourselves 

Regret, remorse, and shame ; 
And man, whose heaven-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to mau 

Makes comitless tliousauds mourn ! 

See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile, 
"VMio begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn. 
Unmindful, though a weeping wife 

Aud helpless offspring mourn. 

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave — 

By Nature's law designed — 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind ? 



124 



BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty or scorn ? 
Or why has man the will and power 

To make his fellow mourn ? 

Vet, let not this too much, my son. 

Disturb thy youthful breast ; 
This partial view of human-kind 

Is surely not the last ! 
The poor, oppressed, honest man 

Had never, sure, been born. 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn ! 

Oh Death ' the poor man's dearest friend- 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour, my aged limbs 

Are laid w ith thee at rest ! 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow. 

From pomp and pleasure torn ! 
But, oh ! a blest relief to those 

That weary-laden mourn ! " 



^a a SHniisr, 

OJI TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, 

November 1785. (63.) 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin',tim'rous beastie. 
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 

AVi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin and chase thee, 

AVi' murd'ring pattle ! 
I'm truly sorrow man's dominion 
Has broken nature's social union. 
And justilies that ill opinion, 

AA'hich makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion. 

And fellow-mortal! 
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! 
A daimen icker in athrave 

's a sma' request : 
I'll get a blessin' wi' the laive. 

And never miss't ! 
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! 
And uaething, now, to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green 
And bleak December's winds ensuin', 

Baith snell and keen ! 
Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste. 
And weary winter couiin' fast. 
And cozie here, beneath the blast. 

Thou thought to dwell. 
Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 



That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble, 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald. 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble. 

And cranreuch cauldl 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane. 
In provnig foresight may be vain: 
The best laid schemes o' mice and men. 

Gang aft a-gley. 
And lea'e us nought but grief and pain. 

For promis'd joy. 

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me I 
The present only toucheth thee : 
But, och ! I backward cast my e'e. 

On prospects drear t 
And forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess and fear. 



DUAN FIRST. (64) 

The sun had clos'd the winter day. 
The curlers quat their roaring play (65), 
And hunger'd maukiu ta'en her way 

To kail-yards green, 
Wliile faithless snavvs ilk step betray 

Whare she has been. 

The thresher's weary flingin'-tree 
The lee-lang day had tired me ; 
And when the day had clos'd his e'e. 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the spence (6G), right pensivelie, 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lauely, by the ingle-cheek, 
1 sat and ey'd the spewing reek. 
That till'd wi' hoast-provoking smeek. 

The auld clay biggin' ; 
And heard the restless rations squeak 

About the riggin'. 

All in this mottie, misty clime, 
I backward nms'd on wasted time. 
How I had spent my youthfu' primes 

And done nae tluug. 
But stringin' blethers up in rhyme. 

For fools to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, 
I might, by this, hae led a market. 
Or strutted in a bank, and clarkit 

My cash-account: 
While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit, 

Is a' th' amount. 



THE VISIOX. 



125 



I started, mutt'ring, blockhead ! coof I 
And heav'd on high my waukit loof, 
To swear by a' yon starry roof, 

Or some rash aith, 
That I hencefortli would be rhyme-proof 

Till my last breath— 

■\Mien, click ! the string the snick did draw; 
And, jee ! the door gaed to the wa' ; 
And by my ingle-lowe I saw, 

Now bleezin' bright, 
A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw. 

Come full \ji sight. 

Ye reedna doubt, I held my whisht ; 
The infant aith, half-forra'd, was crusht ; 
I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been diisht 

In some wild glen ; 
When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht. 

And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 
Were twisted gracefu' round her lirows ; 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token. 
And come to stop those reckless vows, 

Wou'd soon been broken. 

A " hair-brain'd, sentimental trace " 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 
A wildjy-witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her ; 
Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with honour. 

Down flow'd her robe a tartan sheen, 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean 

Could only peer it ; 
Sae thought, sae taper, tight and clean, 

Kane else came near it. 

Her mantle large, of greenish hue. 

My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 

Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw 

A lustre grand ; 
And seem'd, to my astonish'd view, 

A well-know i land. 
Here, rivers in the sea wore lost ; 
There, mountains to the skies were tost : 
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast 

With surging foam 
Tliere, distant shone Art's lofty boast. 

The lordly dome. 
Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods; 
There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds : 
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods. 

On to the shore. 
And many a lesser torrent scuds, 

'\\'ith seeming roar. 
Low in a sandy valley spread. 
An ancient borough rear'd her head (67) ; 



Still, as in Scottish story read, 

She boasts a race. 
To ev'ry nobler virtue bred. 

And polish'd grace. 

By stately tow'r or palace fair. 

Or ruins pendent in the air, 

Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern ; 
Some seem'd to nuise, some seem'd to dare^ 

With feature stem, 

My heart did glowing transport feel. 

To see a race (G8> heroic wheel, 

And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel 

In sturdy blows ; 
While back-recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their sutlu'on foes. 

His Country's Saviour (G9), mark him welll 
Bold Richardtou's (70) heroic swell ; 
The chief on Sark (71) who glorious fell 

In high command ; 
And he whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

Tliere, where a sceptr'd Pictish shade (72) 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial race, portray'd 

In colours strong; 
Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismayed 

They strode along. 

Tliro' many a wild romantic grove (73), 
Near many a hcrmit-fancy'd cove 
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love). 

In musing mood. 
An aged judge, I saw him rove. 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-stnick reverential awe (74), 
The learned sire and son I saw (75), 
To Nature's God and Nature's law 

They gave their lore, 
This, all its source and end to draw ; 

That, to adore. 

Brydone's brave ward (76) I well could spj 
Beneath old Scotia's smihng eye ; 
Who call'd on Fame, low standing by. 

To hand him on, 
Where many a patriot-name on high 

And hero shone. 

DUAN SECOND. 

With musing-deep, astonish'd st5T^ 
I view'd the hcav'nly-sceming fair ; 
A whisp'ring throb did witness bear 

Of kindred sweet, 
Wlien with an elder sisters's air 

She did me greet. 



126 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" All hail ! my owri inspired bard ! 
In me thy native Muse regard ! 
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 

Tlius poorly low ! 
I come to give thee such regard 

As we bestow. 

Know, the great genius of this land 
Has many a light, aerial band. 
Who, all beneath his high command. 

Harmoniously, 
As arts or arms they luiderstand. 

Their labours ply. 

They Scotia's race among them share; 
Some fire the soldier on to dare ; 
Some raise the patriot on to bare 

Corruption's heart : 
Some teach the bard, a darling care, 

The tuneful art. 

'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore^ 
They, ardent, kindling spirits, pour ; 
Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar. 

They, sightless, stand. 
To mend the honest patriot-lore. 

And grace the hand. 

And when the bard, or hoary sage. 
Charm or instruct the future age. 
They bind the wild, poetic rage 

In energy. 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eye. 
Hence Fullarton, the brave and young ; 
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue; 
Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung 

His ' jMinstrel lays ; ' 
Or tore, with nobler ardour stung. 

The sceptic's bays. 
To lower orders are assign'd 
The humbler ranks of human-kind. 
The rustic bard, the lalj'ring hind. 

The artizan ; 
All choose, as various tliey're inclin'd. 

The various man. 
When yellow waves the heavy grain. 
The threat'ning storm some, strongly, rein : 
Some teach to meliorate tlie plain. 

With tiDage-skill ; 
And some instruct the shepherd-train, 

Blythe o'er the hiU. 
Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 
Some sooilie the lab'rer's weary toil. 

For humble gains. 
And mal' ^ his cottage-scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 
Some, bounded to a district-space. 
Explore at large man's infant race^ 



To mark the embryotic trace 

Of rustic bard ; 
And careful note each op'ning grace, 

A guide and guard. 
Of these am I — Coila my name (77) ; 
And this district as mine I claim. [fame. 
Where once the Campbells (78), chiefs of 

Held ruling pow'r : 
I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame. 

Thy natal hour. 
With future hope, I oft would gaze. 
Fond, on thy little early ways. 
Thy rudely caroU'd, chiming phrase. 

In uncouth rhymes, 
Fir'd at the simple, artless lays. 

Of other times. 
I saw thee seek the sounding shore. 
Delighted with the dashing roar ; 
Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove through the sky, 
I saw grim nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 
Or when the deep green-mantled earth 
Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth. 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove, 
I saw thee eye the general mirth 

With boundless love. 
'Wlicn ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
Called forth the reaper's rustling nois^ 
I saw thee leave their evening joys. 

And lonely stalk, 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 
'Wlien youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, 
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along. 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongne, 

Th' adored Name, 
I taught thee how to pour in song. 

To soothe thy flame. 
I saw thy pulse's maddening play. 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way. 
Misled by Fancy's meteor-ray. 

By passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from Heaven. 
I taught thy manners-painting strains. 
The loves, the ways of simple swains. 
Till now, o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extends ; 
And some, the pride of Coila's plains. 

Become thy friends. 
Thou canst not learn, nor can I show. 
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ; 
Or wake the bosom-melting throe. 

With Shenstone's art ; 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 

Warm on the heart. 




'HE JOLLY BEGGARS 



THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY. 



127 



Yet, all beneath the inirh'aU'd rose, 

The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 

The' large the forest's monarch throws 

His army shade, 
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 

Adown the glade. 
Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; 
And, trust me, not Potosi's mine. 

Nor king's regard, 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 

A rustic bard. 
To give my counsels all in one — 
Thy tuneful flame still carcfid fan; 
Preserve the dignity of man, 

\A'ith soul erect ; 
And trust, the universal plan 

Will all protect. 
And wear thou this " — she solemn said. 
And bound the holly round my head : 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red. 

Did rustling play ; 
And, hke a passing thought, she fled 

In light away. 



€\}t Mniljnr's £arnrst Crif anii ^ratjpr 

TO THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN 
THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. (79) 

" Dearest of distillation ! last and best ! 
How art thou lost !" — Parody on Milton. 

Ye Irish lords, ye knights and squires, 
Wlia represent our brughs and shires. 
And doucely manage our affairs 

In parliament. 
To you a simple Bardie's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 
Alas ! my roopit IMuse is hearse ! 
Yoiur honour's heart wi' grief 'twad pierce' 
To see her sittiu' on her a — 

Low i' the dust. 
And scriecliin' out prosaic verse, 

And like to brust ! 
Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 
Scotland and me's in great affliction. 
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction 

On aqua vitje ; 
And rouse them up to strong conviction. 

And move their pity. 

Stand forth, and tell yon Premier youth (80), 

The honest, open, naked truth : 

Tell him o' mine and Scotland's drouth. 

His servants humble : 
The muckle devil blaw ye south. 

If ye dissemble ! 



Does ony great man glunch and gloom? 
Speak out, and never fas your thoom ! 
Let posts and pensions sink or soom 

W' them wha grant 'era : 
If honestly they canna come. 

Far better want 'em. 

In gathrin' votes you were na slack; 
Now stand as tightly by your tack ; 
Ne'er claw your lug, and fidge your back. 

And hum and haw ; 
But raise your arm, and tell your crack 

Before them a'. 

Paint Scotland greeting ower her thrissle. 
Her mutchkiu stoup as toom's a whissle; 
And d-mn'd excisemen in a busslc. 

Seizin' a stell. 
Triumphant crushiu't like a mussel 

Or lampit shell. 

Then on the tither hand present her, 
A blackguard smuggler, right behint her. 
And cheek-for-chow, a chutlie vintner, 

Colleaguing join. 
Picking her pouch as bare as winter 

Of a' kind coin. 

Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, 
But feels his heart's bluid rising hot. 
To see his poor auld mither's pot 

Thus dung in staves. 
And plundered o' her hmdraost groat 

By gallows knaves ? 

Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight. 

Trod i' the mire out o' sight ! 

But could I like Jlontiromeries fight (81), 

Or gab like Boswell {S'J), 
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight. 

And tie some hose well. 

God bless your honours, can ye see't. 
The kind, auld, cantie carlin greet. 
And no get warmly to your feet. 

And gar them hear it. 
And tell them, with a patriot heat. 

Ye winna bear it ? 

Some o' yoti nicely ken the laws. 
To round the period and pause. 
And wi' rhetoric clause on clause 

To mak harangues ; 
Tlien echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's 

Auld Scotland's wrangs. 

Dempster (SS'i, a true blue Scotl'se warran', 
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran (84); 
And that ghb-gabbet Higidand baron. 

The Laird o' Graham (85) ; 
Aud ane, a chap that's d-mn'd auidfarrau, 

Dundas his name. (8G) 



' 



128 



BDRNS'S rOETlCAL WORKS. 



Erskine (87), a spunkie Norland billie ; 
True Campbells, Prederick (88) and Hay (89); 
And Livingstone, the ba\ild Sir Willie ; 

And monie ithers, 
Whcm auld Demosthenes or TiiUy 

May'n own for brithers. 
See' sodger Hugh, my watchmen stented. 
If bardies e'er are represented; 
I ken if that your sword were wanted, 

Ye'd lend a hand, 
But when there's ought to say anent it, 

Ye're at a stand. (90) 
Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle. 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; 
Or faith ! I'll wad my now pleugh-pettle. 

Ye' 11 see't ere lang. 
She'll teach you wi' a reekin' whittle, 

Anither sang. 
Tliis while she's been in crankus mood, 
Her lost militia fir'd her bluid ; 
(Deil na they never mair do guid, 

Play'd her that pliskie !) 
And now she's like to run red-wud 

About her whisky. 
And L — d ! if auce they pit her tiU't, 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt. 
And durk and pistol at her belt. 

She'll tak the streets. 
And rin her whittle to the hilt, 

I' th' first she meets ! 
For G-d sake, sirs ! then speak her fair. 
And straik her cannie wi' the hair. 
And to the mvickle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed. 
And strive, wi' a' your wit and lear. 

To get remead. 
Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers and mocks ; 
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the cadie ! 
An send him to his dicing box 

And sportin' lady. 
Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's (91), 
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks (92), 
And drink his health in auld Nanse Tin- 
nock's (93) 

Nine times a-week. 
If he some scheme, like tea and winnocks (94), 

Wad kindly seek. 
Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, 
He'll need ua fear their foul reproach. 

Nor erudition, 
ion mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch. 

The Coalition. 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue; 
She's just a devil wi' a rung ; 



And if she promise auld or young 

To tak their part, 
Tho' by the neck she should be strung, 

She'U no desert. 

And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, 
i\Iay still your mither's heart support ye; 
Then, though a minister grow dorty. 

And kick your place, 
Ye'll snap your fingers poor and hearty. 

Before his face. 

God bless your honours a' your days, 
Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise. 
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes. 

That haunt St. Jamies I 
Your humble Poet sings and prays. 

While Rab his name is. 

POSTCRIPT. 

Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies 
See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies. 

But blythe and frisky. 
See eyes her freeborn, martial boys 

Tak alT their whisky. 

WTiat tho' their Phcebus kinder warms, 
While fragrance blooms and beauty cliarms! 
When wretches range, in famish'd swarms. 

The scented groves. 
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burthen on their shoulther ; 
They downa bide the stink o' powther ; 
Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither 

To Stan' or rin. 
Till skelp — a shot — they're atf, a'throwther. 

To save their skin. 
But bring a Scotsman frae his hUl, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill. 
Say such is royal George's will. 

And there's the foe, 
lie has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow. 
Nae cauld, faint-hearted doublings tease him; 
Death comes — wi' fearless eye he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy lian' a welcome gies him ; 

And when he fa's. 
His latest draught o' breathiu' lea's him 

In faint huzzas ! 
Sages their solemn een may steek. 
And raise a philosophic reek. 
And physically causes seek, 

In clime and season ; 
But tell me whisky's name in Greek, 

I'll tell the reason. 
Scotland, my auld, respected mitherl 
The' whiles ye moistify your leather. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 



12a 



. .ii V i.iie ye sit, on craps 0' heather 
Ye tine your dam ; 

freedoui and whisky gang thegitlier ! — 
Take atf your drain ! 



Irnirl; Drink. 

" Gie him strong drink, until he ■wink, 

That's sinkin;j: in despair ; 
And liquor t;ui(i to fire liis bluid, 
That's prest w' grief and care ; 
There let him house, and deep carouse, 

Wi' bumpers flowiui? o'er, 
Till he forgets his loves or debts. 
And minds his griefs no more." (9.5.) 
Solomon's Pkoverb, xxxi, G, 7. 

Let other poets raise a fracas, 

'Bout nncs, and wines, and dru'ken Bacchus, 

And crabbit names and stories wrack us, 

And grate our hig', 
I sing the juice Scotch beer can mak us. 

In glass or jug. 
Oh thou, my Muse ! guid auld Scotch drink; 
M'hether thro' wimplin' worms thou jink. 
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink. 

In glorious faera. 
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink. 

To sing thy name ! 
Let hii^sky wheat the haughs adorn, 
Ai d aits s^t up their awnie horn. 
And i^tMs and beans, at e'en or morn. 

Perfume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee. John Barleycorn, 

Thou king o' grain ! 
On tliee aft Scotland chows her cood. 
In souple scones, the wale 0' food! 
Or tumbUn' in the boilin' flood 

Vi'i' kail and beet ; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, 

Tliert thou shines chief. 
Food fills the wame, and keeps us livin' ; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin', 
AMien hea^•y dragg'd wi' pine and grievin' ; 

But, oil'd by thee. 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill scrievin', 

Wi' rattlin' glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear: 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care ; 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, 

At's weary toil ; 
Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 
Aft clad in massy, siller v.eed, 
Wi' geutlcs thou erects thy head (96) ; 
Yet humbly kind in time o' need. 

The poor man's Mine, 
His wee drap panitch, or his bread. 

Thou kitchens fine. (97) 



Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 

But thee, what were our fairs and rants? 

Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts. 

By thee inspir'd, 
Wlien gaping they besiege tlie tents (98), 

Are doubly fir'd. 

That merry night we get the corn in. 
Oh sweetly then thou reams the horn in I 
Or reekin' on a new-year morning 

In cog or bicker. 
And just a wee drap sp'ritual bum in. 

And gusty sucker ! 

Wlien Vulcan gies his bellows breath. 
And ])loughmen gather wi' their graith. 
Oh rare! to see thee fizz and frealh 

I' th' lugget caup ! 
Then Burnewin comes on like death 

At ev'ry chap. 

Nae mercy, then, for air or steel ; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel. 
Brings hard owrehip, vd' sturdy wheel. 

The strong forehammer. 
Till block and studdie ring and reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour. 

When skirlin' weanies see the light. 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright. 
How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight ^ 

Wae worth the name ! 
Nae howdie gets a social night. 

Or plack frae them. 

AVlien neebors anger at a plea. 
And just as wud as wud can be. 
How easy can the barley-bree 

Cement the quarrel I 
Its aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, 

To taste the barrel. 

Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ! 
But monie daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors nice. 
And hardly, in a winter's season. 

E'er spier her price. 

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash f 
Fell source o' monie a pain and brash ! 
Twins monie a poor, doylt, druckcn hash, 

O' half his days ; 
And sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 

To her warst faes. 

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well, 
Y'e chief, to you my tale I tell. 
Poor plackless devils like nij-sel. 

It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell. 

Or foreign gill. 

May gravels round his blather wrench. 
And gouts torment nim inch by inch. 



13C 



BUKNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Wha twists his gruntle wi' a gluuch 

O' sour disdain. 
Out owre a glass o' whisky punch 

Wj' honest men ! 
Oh whisky ! soul o' plays and pranks ! 
Accept a IBardie's gratefu' thanks ! 
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 

Are my poor verses ! 
Thou comes tliey rattle i' their ranks 

At ither's a — ! 
Thee, Ferintosh ! oh sadly lost! (99) 
Scotland lament frae coast to coast 1 
Now cohc grips, and barkin' hoast. 

May kill us a' ; 
For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast. 

Is ta'en awa! 
Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, 
Wha mak the whisky stells their prize ! 
Hand up thy han', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice ! 

There, seize the blinkers ! 
And bake them up in brunstane pies 

For poor d — nd drinkers, 
Fortune ! if thou' 11 but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, and whisky gill, 
And rowth o' rhyme to rave at wUl, 

Tak a' the rest. 
And deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs thee best. 



iiites In till! Ttnrn &mi, 

OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 

" My son, these maxims make a rule, 
And lump them aye thesfither ; 
The llif^id Ritrhteous is a fool, 

The Rigid Wise anithcr ; 
The cleanest corn that eer was dight 

May hae some pyles o' caff in ; 
So ne'er a fellow-creature slight 
For random fits o' daffin." 

Solomon— Eccles. vii, 16. 

Oh ye wha are sae guid yoursel, 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 

Your neebour's fauts and folly ! 
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill. 

Supplied wi' store o' water, 
The heaped hap;;'er's ebbing still. 

And still the clap plays clatter. 
Hear me, ye venerable core. 

As counsel for poor mortals. 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 

For glaiket FoUy's portals ; 
I, for their thoughtless, cireless sakes. 

Would here propone d fences. 
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes. 

Their failings and miscliances. 



Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd. 

And shudder at the niffer. 
But cast a moment's fair regard. 

What maks the mighty ditfer ? 
Discount w hat scant occasion gave 

That purity ye pride in. 
And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) 

Your better art o' hiding. 
Tliink, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a wallop. 
What ragings must his veins convulse. 

That stm eternal gallop : 
Wi' \vind and tide fair i' your tail. 

Eight on ye scud your sea-way j 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail. 

It maks an unco lee-way. 
See social life and glee sit down. 

All joyous and unthinking. 
Till, quite transmugrilied, they're grown 

Debauchery and drinking : 
Oh would tliey stay to calculate 

Til' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to state, 

I)-mnation of expenses ! 
Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames. 

Tied up in godly laces. 
Before ye gie poor frailty names. 

Suppose a change o' cases ; 
A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inclination — 
But, let me whisper i' your lug. 

Ye' re aibUns nae temptation. 
Then gently scan your brother man. 

Still gentler sister woman ; 
Though they may gang a kennin' wrang. 

To step aside is human : 
One pouit must still be greatly dark. 

The moving why they do it : 
And just as lamely can ye mark, 

How far perhaps they rue it. 
Wlio made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us. 
He knows each chord — its various toiu^ 

Each spring — its various bias : 
Then at the balance let's be mute. 

We never can adjust it ; 
WTiat's done we partly may compute 

But know not what's resisted. 



••An honest man's tlie noblest work of GodJ 
Pope. 

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil ? 
Or great M'Kinlay (100) thrawn his heel? 
Or Kobertson (101) again grown wcel. 
To preach and read ? 



DESPONDENCY. 



131 



" Na, waur than a' ! " cries ilka chiel — 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 
Kilmarnock lang may grunt and grrane, 
And sigh, and sob, and greet her lane, 
And deed her bairns, man, wife, and wean, 

In mourning weed ; 
To death, she's dearly paid the kane — 

Tam Samson's dead ! 
The brethren o' the mystic level 
May hing their head in woefu' bevel, 
Wilde by their nose the tears will revel. 

Like ony head ; 
Death's gi'en the lodge an unco devel — 

Tam Samson's dead ! 
When winter muffles up his cloak. 
And binds the mire like a rock ; 
When to the lochs the curlers flock 

Wi' gleesome speed, 
\Mia will they station at the cock ? — 

Tam Samson's dead ? 
He was the king o' a' the core. 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore. 
Or up the rink like Jehu roar 

In time o' need ; 
But now he lags on death's hog-seore — 

Tam Samson's dead ! 
Now safe the stately sav^Tnont sail, 
And trouts be-dropp'd wi' crimson hail, — 
And eels weel kenn'd for souple tail. 

And geds for creed, 
Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail 

Tam Samson dead ! 
Elejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; 
Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw; 
Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, 

Withouten dread; 
Your mortal fae is now awa' — 

Tam Samson's dead ! 
That woefu mourn be ever mourn'd 
Saw him in shootin' graith adorn'd. 
While pointers round impatient burn'd, 

Frae couples freed ; 
But, och ! he gaed and ne'er return'd ! — 

Tam Samson's dead ! 
In vain auld age his body batters ; 
In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; 
In vain the burns cam' down like waters. 

An acre braid ! 
Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin', clatters, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 
OwTC many a weary hag he lirapit. 
And aye the tither shot he thumpit. 
Till coward death behind him jumpit, 

Wi' deadly feide; 
Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 
When at his heart he felt the dagger, 
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger. 



But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weel-aim'd heed ; 
" L — d, five ! " he cried, and owTe did 
stagger — 

Tam Samson's dead ! 
Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither ; 
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father ; 
You auld grey stane, amang the heather, 

iMarks out his head, 
"\^'hare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 
There now he lies, in lasting rest ; 
Perhaps upon his mould'riug breast 
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest. 

To hatch and breed ; 
Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest !— 

Tam Samson's dead ! 
'VAHien August winds the heather wave. 
And sportsmen wander by you grave. 
Three volleys let his mem'ry crave 

O' pouther and lead, 
Till echoe answer frae her cave, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 
Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be ! 
Is th' wish o' mony mae than me ; 
He had twa fauts, or maybe three. 

Yet what remead ? 
Ae social, honest man want we : 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

EPITAPH. 

Tam Samson's weel worn clay here lies. 
Ye canting zealots spare him ! 

If honest worth in heaven rise, 
Ye'll mend or ye win near him. 

PER CONTRA. 

Go, Fame, and canter like a filly 

Thro' e the streets and neuks o' KilUe (102), 

Tell ev'ry social, honest billy 

To cease his grievin'. 
For yet, uuskaith'd by death's gleg guUie, 

Tam Samsou's hvin' (103) ! 



Dpspnuirrnrq. 



Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care, 
A burden more than 1 can bear, 

I set me down and sigh ; 
Oh life 1 thou art a galling load. 
Along a rough, a weary road. 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim-backward as I cast my view. 

What sick'ning scenes appear ! 
What sorrows yet may pierce me thr</. 

Too justly I may fear I 



13 



132 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Still caring, despairing, 

yiuit be my bitter doom; 
My woes here shall close ne'er 
But with the closing tomb I 
Happy, ye sons of busy life. 
Who, equal to the bustling strife, 

No other view regard ! 
Ev'n when the wished end's denied. 
Yet while the busy means are plied. 

They bring their own reward : 
Whilst I, a hope-abandou'd wight. 

Unfitted with an aim. 
Meet ev'ry sad returning night 
And joyless morn tlie same ; 
You, bustling, ai;-i justling. 

Forget each grief and pain; 
I listless, yet restless. 
Find every prospect vam. 
How blest the solitary's lot, 
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot. 

Within his humble cell. 
The cavern wild with tangling roots, 
Siis o'er his newly-gather'd fruits. 

Beside his crystal well ! 
Or haply to his ev'ning thought. 

By unfrequented stream. 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint collected dream ; 
While praising and raising 

His thoughts to heav'n on high. 
As wand'ring, meand'ring. 
He views the solemn sky. 
Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd 
Wliere never human footstep trac'd. 

Less tit to play the part ; 
The lucky moment to improve, 
And just to stop, and just to move. 

With self-respecting art : 
But, ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys. 

Which I too keenly taste. 
The solitary can despise. 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not. 

Or human love or hate. 
Whilst I here, must cry here 
At perfidy ingrate I 
Oh ! enviable, early days, 
\^Tien dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze. 

To care, to guilt unknown ! 
How ill excliang'd for riper times. 
To feel the follies, or the crimes. 

Of others or my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, 

Like linnets in the bush. 
Ye little know the ills ye court. 
When manhood is your wish 1 
The losses, the crosses. 

That active man engage 1 
The fears all, the tears all. 
Of dim declining age I 



fjIE (fntlrr's latnrhij Sligljt. 

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKIN, ESO. (104^ 

" Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; 
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short and simple annals of the poor." 

(105)-Gkat. 

My loved, my honour'd, much respected 

friend. 

No mercenary bard his homage pays : 

With honest pride I scoru each selfish 

end : [praise : 

]\Iy dearest meed, a friend's esteem and 

To you 1 sing, in simple Scottish lays. 

The lowly tram in life's sequester'd 

scene ; [ways ; 

The native feelings strong, the guileless 

What Aitken in a cottage would have 

been; [there, I ween. 

Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry 

sough ; [close ; 

The short'ning winter- day is near a 

The miry beasts retreating frae the 

pleugh ; [repose : 

The black'ning trains o' craws to their 

The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes. 

This night his weekly mod is at an end. 

Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his 

hoes, [spend. 

Hoping the mom in ease and rest to 

And weary, o'er the moor, his course does 

hameward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view. 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee things toddhn, stacher 
thro' [and glee. 

To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise 
His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily. 

His clean hearth-stane, his tluiftie . 
wifie's smile. 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee. 
Does a' liis weary Maugh and care 
beguile, [his toil. 

And makes him quite forget his labour and 
Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in. 
At service out amang the farmers roun', 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some 
tentie rin 
A cannie errand to a neibor town ; 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman 
grown, [e'e. 

In youtlifu' bloom, love sparkhn' in her 
Comes liame, perhaps, to show a bra' new 
gown. 
Or deposit her sair-won penny fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hard- 
ship be. 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 



133 



With joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters 
meet, [spiers : 

And each for other's weelfare kindly 
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd 
fleet ; [hears ; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful 
years ; 
Anticipation forward pomts the view, 
Tlie mother, wi' her needle and her shears. 
Gars aidd claes look amaist as weel's 
the new ; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

Their master's and their mistress's com- 
mand. 
The yoiinkers a' are warned to obey ; 
And mind their laboiurs wi' an eydent 
hand, [j'lay ; 

And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or 
"And oh ! be smre to fear the Lord alway ! 
And mind your duty, duly, morn and 
night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye grang astray. 
Implore His coimsel and assisting 
might : Lord aright ! " 

They never sought in vain that sought the 

But, hark! a rap comes gently to the 
door, [same, 

Jenny wha kens the meaning o' the 
Tells how a neibor lad cam o'er the moor. 
To do some errands, and convoy her 
hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her 
cheek, [name, 

Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his 
TMiile Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
eel pleas'd the mother hears it's nae vrdd 
worthless rake. 

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him 

ben ; [e'e ; 

A strappin youth ; he taks the mether's 

Bhthe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, 

and kye. [joy, 

The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' 

But blate and lathefu', scarce can weel 

behave ; [spy 

The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can 

VThat makes the youth sae baslifu' an' 

sae grave ; 

Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected 

like the lave. 

Oh happy love ! — where love like this is 

found ! [compare ! 

Oh heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond 



I've paced much this weary, mortal round. 
And sage experience bids me this de- 
clare — [spare, 
" If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasture 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 

'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair 

In other's arms breathe out the tender 

tale, [the ev'ning gale." 

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, 

A ^^ retch ! a villain ! lost to love and 

truth !— 

That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art. 

Betray sweet Jenny's tmsuspecling 

youth? [smooth! 

Curse on his perjur'd arts! disserablnicj 

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd? 

Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their 

chdd? [traction wild ? 

Then pauits the niin'd maid, and their dis- 

But now the supper crowns their simple 

board, [food ; 

The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's 

The soupe their only hawkie does afford. 

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her 

cood : [mood, 

The dame brings forth, in complimental 

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd keb- 

luck, fell. 

And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid; 

The frugal wide, garridous, will tell. 
How 'twas a towmond aiUd, sin' lint was 

i' the bell. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face. 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 

The sire turns o'er, witli patriarchal grace. 

The big ha'-bible, ance his father's pride; 

His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 

His lyart haff'ets wearing thin and bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion 
glide, 
He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
And " Let us worship God ! " he says, with 
solemn air. 
They chant their artless notes in simple 
guise ; [aim : 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest 
Perhaps Dundee's wUd-warbling measures 
rise, [name. 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the 
Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward 
flame. 
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are 
tame ; [raise ; 

The tickl'd ear no heart-felt raptures 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator'i 
praise. 



134 



BUllNS'S POJiTICAL WOEKS. 



The priest-like father reads the sacred 
page — [high ; 

How Abram was the friend of God ou 
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging 
ire; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the 
theme — (shed ; 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was 
How He, who bore in Heaven the second 
name, [iiead : 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his 
How his first followers and servants sped. 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a 
land : 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished. 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced 
by Heaven's command. 

Then kneeling down to Heaven's eter- 
nal King, [prays: 
The saint, the father, and the husband 
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant 
wing," (106) [days: 
That thus they all shall meet in futui'e 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear. 
Together hymning their Creator's praise. 
In such society, yet still more dear ; 
'While circling time moves round in an eter- 
nal sphere. 
Corapar'd with this, how poor Keligion's 
pride, 
In all the pomp of method, and of art. 
When men display to congregations wide. 
Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! 
The pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will de- 
sert. 
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 
But, haply, in some cottage far apart, 
May hear, well pleas'd, the language of 
the soul ; [enrol. 

And in his book of life the inmates poor 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral 
way; 
The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent pair their secret homage pay. 
And proffer up to Heaven the warm re- 
quest, [nest, 
Tliat He, who stills the raven's clam'rous 
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride. 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the 
best. 



For them and for their little ones provide .: 
But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine 
preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's gran- 
deur springs, [abroad : 
ITiat makes her lov'd at home, rever'd 
Princes and lords are but the breath of 
kings, [God ! " 
" An honest man's the noblest work of 
And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road. 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 

What is a lordhng's pomp ? — a cumbrous 

load, [kind 

Disguising oft the wretch of human 

Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refia'd! 

Oh Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven 
is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil. 
Be blest with health, and peace, and 
sweet content ! [prevent 

And oh ! may Heaven their simple lives 
From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Tlien, howe'er crowns and coronets be 
rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand a wall of fire around their much- 
lov'd isle. 

Oh Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 
That stream'd through Wallace's un- 
daunted heart, 
Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 
Or nobly die the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art. 
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and re- 
ward !) 
Oh never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; 
But still the patriot, and the patriot 
bard, [guard ! 

In bright succession raise, her ornament and 



t!tn a 3ilnitntaiii Daisi|. 

IN TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE 
PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786. (107) 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush an»ang the stoure 

Thy slender stem : 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r. 

Thou bonnie gem. 
Alas ! it's no thy neibor sweet. 
The bonnie lark, companion meet. 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy \veet I 

Wi' speckl'd breast, 
When up-ward-springing, blythe, to greet 

The purpling east. 



EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 



135 



Cauld blew the bitter-bitiii<; north 
Upon thy early, h\irable birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thovi srlinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd abo\ c the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flauininf; flowers our g-ardens yield. 
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield ; 
But ihou, beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane. 
Adorn the histie stibble-field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread. 
Thou Ufts thy unassuming- head, 

In humble gaiise ; 
But now the share nptears thy bed 

And low thou lies I 

Such is the fate of artless maid. 
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betray'd. 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple bard. 

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore. 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard. 

And whelm him o'er ! 

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, 
AVho long with wants and woes has striv'n, 
By human pride or cunning driv'n 

To mis'ry's brink. 
Till WTench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, 

He, ruin'd, sink ! 

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate. 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruhi's ploughshare drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom, 
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be thy doom. 



Epistle Id a f^niing /ripnk 

M.\Y, 1796. (108) 

I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, 

A something to have sent you. 
Though it should serve nae other end 

Thau just a kind momento ; 
But how the subject-theme may gang. 

Let time and chance determine ; 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 

Perhaps turn out a sermon. 



13 



Ye'll try the world fu' soon, my lad. 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad. 

And muckle they may grieve ye : 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

Ev'n when your end's attained ; 
And a' your views may come to nought. 

Where ev'ry nerve is strained. 

I'll no say men are villains a' : 
The real, hardcn'd wicked, 
i Wha hae nae check but human law, 
1 Are to a few restricked 
' But, och ! mankind are unco weak. 
And httle to be trusted ; 
If self the wavering balance shake. 
It's rarely right adjusted! 

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife. 

Their fate we should na censure. 
For still th' important end of life, 

Tliey equally may answer ; 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho' poortith hourly stare him ; 
A man may tak a neibor's part. 

Yet hae no cash to spare him. 

Aye free, aff han, your story tell. 

When wi' a bosom crony ; 
But still keep something to yoursel 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection ; 
But keek through ev'ry other man, 

Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection. 

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love. 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
But never tempt th' illicit rove, 

Tho' naething should dinJge it : 
I waive the quantum o' the sin. 

The hazard of concealing ; 
But, och ! it hardens a' within. 

And petrifies the feeling ! 

To catch dame Fortune's golden smiley 

Assiduous wait upon her ; 
And gather gear by ev'ry wile 

That's justified by honour; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge. 

Nor for a train-attendant. 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent. 

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip 

To baud the wretch in order ; 
But where ye feel your honour grip. 

Let that aye be your border : 
Its slightest touches, instaut pause — 

Debar a' side pretences ; 
And resolutely keeps its laws. 

Uncaring consequences. 
* 



133 



BURNS' S POETICAL WORKS. 



nie great Creator to revere 

j\lust sure become the creature. 
But still the preachitig can forbear, 

And e'en the rigid feature : 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range. 

Be complaisance extended ; 
An Atheist laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity offended ! 

When rantins; round in pleasure's ring, 

Religion may be blinded ; 
Or if she gie a random sting. 

It may be little minded ; 
But when on life we're tempest driv'n, 

A conscience but a canker, 
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n 

Is sure a noble anchor ! 

A.dieu ! dear, amiable youth 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting ! 
May prudence, fortitude, and truth 

Erect your brow undaunting ! 
In ploughman phrase, " God send you 
speed," 

Still daily to grow wiser : 
And may you better reck the rede 

Than ever did th' adviser ! 



£ DrJiiratinn in §mii iamiltnn, fsii. 

(109) 

Expect na, sir, in this narration, 
A fleeching, fleth'rin dedication, 
To roose you up, and ca' you guid. 
And sprung o' great and noble bluid. 
Because ye're surnam'd like his grace ; 
Perhaps related to the race ; 
Then when I'm tir'd, and sae are j^e, 
Wi' mony a fidsome, sinfu' he, 
Set up a face, how I stop short. 
For fear your modesty be hi\rt. 

This may do — maun do, sir, wi' them wha 
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou ; 
For me ! — sae laigh I needna bow. 
For, lord be thankit, 1 can plough ; 
And when I downa yoke a naig. 
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg ; 
Sae I shall say, and that's nae flatt'rin'. 
It's just sic poet, and sic patron. 
The Poet, some guid angel help him. 
Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him. 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet. 
But only he's no just begun yet. 

The Patron (sir, ye maun forgive me, 
I winna lie, come what wdl o' me). 
On ev'ry hand it will allowed be. 
He's just — nae better than he should be. 



I readily and freely grant. 
He downa see a poor man want ; 
What's no his aim he winna tak it. 
What ance he says he winna break it ; 
Ought he can lend he'll no refus't 
Till aft his goodness is abus'd ; 
And rascals whyles that do him wrang, 
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang : 
As master, landlord, husband, father. 
He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that; 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; 
It's naething but a milder feature. 
Of our poor sinfu', corrupt nature : 
Ye'U get the best o' moral works, 
'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, 
Or hunter's wild on Ponotaxi, 
^Vha never heard of orthodoxy. 
That he's 'the poor man's friend in need, 
Tlie gentleman in word and deed, / 
It's no thro' terror of d-mn-tiou ; 
It's just a carnal inclination. 

Morality, thou deadly bane. 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! 
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is 
In moral mercy, truth, and justice ! 

No — stretch a point to catch a plack j 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
Seal thro' a winnock frae a wh-re. 
But point the rake that taks the door; 
Be to the poor like ony whunstane. 
And baud their noses to the grunstane. 
Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving 1 
No matter — stick to sound believing ! 

Learn three-mile pray'rs, and half-mile 

graces, 
Wi' weel-spread looves, and lang wry faces ; 
Grunt up a solemn, lengtlien'd groan. 
And damn a' parties but your own ; 
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 

Oh ye wha leaves the springs o' Calvin, 

For gumlie dubs of your .im delviu' ! 

Ye sons of heresy and error, 

Ye'U some day squeel in quaking terror 

V\ hen Vengeance draws tlie sword in wrath. 

And in the fire throws the sheath ; 

When Ruin, with his sweeping besom. 

Just frets, till heav'n conmiissiou 

him : 
While o'er the harp pale IMis'ry moans. 
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones. 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans I 

Your pardon. Sir, for tliis digression, 
I maist forgat my dedication ; 
But when divinity comes cross me. 
My readers still are sure to loss me. 



gies 



A DREAM. 



137 



So, Sir, }-e see 'twas nae daft ^ npour. 
But 1 maturely thouglit it i^diicr, 
Wlieii a' my woaks 1 did review. 
To dedicate them. Sir, to you : 
Because (ye need na tak it ill) 
I thought them something Uk yoursel. 

Then patronise them wi' your favour. 

And your petitioner sliall ever 

I had amaist said, ever pray, 
■ But that's a word I need ua say : 
For prayin' I hae little skill o't ; 
I'm baith dead swcor, and wretched ill o't ; 
But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r, 
That kens or hears about you. Sir — 

" May ne'er misfortune's growling bark. 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the clerk ! 
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart. 
For that same gen'rous spirit siuart! 
Miiy Kennedy's far-honour'd name 
Lang beet his hymeneal flame. 
Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen. 
Are by their canty tireside risen : 
Five bounie lasses round their table. 
And seven braw fellows, stout and able 
To serve their king and country wcel. 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel I 
May health and peace, with mutual rays. 
Shine on the ev'ning o' his days. 
Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe. 
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow. 
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow." 

T will not wind a lang conclusion. 
With complimentary effusion : 
But whilst your wishes and endeavours 
Are blest with fortune's smiles and favours, 
I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, 
Your much indebted, humljle servant. 
But if (which pow'rs above prevent) 
That iron- hearted carl, AVant, 

Attended in his grim advances. 

By sad mistakes and black mischances. 

While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly 

him. 
Make you as poor a dog as I am. 
Your humble servant then no more; 
For who would humbly serve the poor! 
But, by a poor man's hopes in lieav'a I 
"Wliile recollection's power is giv'n. 
If, in the vale of humble life. 
The victim sad of fortune's strife, 
I, thro' the tender gushing tear, 
Should recognise my master dear. 
If friendless, low, we meet together. 
Then, Sir, your baud — my friend aud bro- 
ter. 



<J Drram. 

" 'J'houtjhts, -words, and deeds, the statute 

b.ame'^ with reason : [treason." (110) 

But surely dreams were ne'er indicted 

Gi'id-mornin' to your Majesty ! 
'May Heaven augment your blisses. 

On e\ 'ry new birth day ye see, 
A humble poet wishes I 
j\Ty hardship here, at your levee^ 

On SIC a day as thi-* is. 
Is sure a:i inicniith sight to see, 

Amang tUue birth-day dresses 
Sae line this day. 
I see ye're complimented thrang, 

By many a linl an<l lady; 
" Gud save the king ! " 's a cuckoo sang 

That's unco easy said aye ; 
The poets, too, a venal gang, 

\> i" rhymes weel-turn'd and ready. 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrau^ 

But aye unerring steady. 
On sic a day. 
For me ! before a monarch's face, 

Ev'ii there I wiuna flatter; 
For neither pension, post, nor plac^ 

Am i your humble ilebtor : 
So, uae reflection on your grace. 

Your kingship to bespatter ; 
There's mouy waur been o" the rac^ 

Aud aibhus ane been better 

Than you this day. 
"lis very true, my sov'reign king. 

My skill may weel be doubted: 
But facts are chicls that wiiuia ding. 

And downa be disputed : 
Your royal nest, beneath your wing. 

Is e'en right reft and clouted. 
And now tlie third part of the strings 

And less, will gang about it 
Thaii did ae day. 
Far be't frae me that I aspire 

To blame your It-gislation, 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire. 

To rule this mighty nation ! 
But faith I I muckle doubt, my sir^ 

Ye've trusted miuistratiun 
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, 

AVad better lill'd their station 

Than courts yon day. 
And now ye've gien aidd Britain peace; 

Iler broken shins to plaister ; 
Your sair taxation does her fleece. 

Till she has s<"jrce a tester ; 
For me, thank God, my life's a lease, 

Nae bargain wearing faster. 
Or, faith ! I fear, that, wi' the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

I' the craft some day. 



138 



BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges, 
(And Will's a trne guid fallow's get (111) 

A name not envy spairges). 
That he intends to pay your debt. 

And lessen a' your charges ; 
But, G-d-sake ! let nae saving-fit 

Abridge your bonnie barges (112) 
And boats this day. 

Adieu, my liege ! may freedom geek 

Beneath your high protection ; 
And may ye rax corruption's neck, 

And gie her for dissection ! 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect. 

In loyal, true affection. 
To pay your Q,neen, with due respect. 

My fealty and subjection 

This great birth-day. 
Hail, Majesty Most E.\cellent! 

\Miile nobles strive to please ye, 
AVill ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gies you ? 
Thae bonnie bairntime, Ileav'n has lent. 

Still higher may they heeze ye 
In' bliss, till fate some day is sent, 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 
For you, young potentate o' Wales, 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely ; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails. 

And curse your folly sairlj', 
That e'er ye brak Diana's pales. 

Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie (113), 
By night or day. 
Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known 

To mak a noble aiver ; 
So, ye may doucely fill a throne. 

For a' their clish-ma-claver : 
There, him at Agincourt wha shone. 

Few better were or braver ; 
And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John, 

He was an unco shaver 

For monie a day (114.) 
For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg (115), 

Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, 
Altho' a ribbon at your lug. 

Wad been a dress completer : 
As ye disown yon paughty dog 

That bears the keys of Peter, 
Then, swith ! and get awife to hug. 

Or, trouth ! ye'U stain the mitre. 
Some luckless day. 
Young, royal Tarry Brocks (116), I learn, 

Ye've lately come athrawt her; 
A glorious galley (117), stem and stern, 

Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter; 



But first hang out, that she'll discern 

Your hymeneal charter. 
Then heave aboard your grapple aim. 

And, large upon her quarter. 

Come full that day. 

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a'. 

Ye royal lasses dainty, 
Heav'n mak ye guid as well as braw. 

And gie you lads a-plenty : 
But sneer na British boys awa'. 

For kings are unco scant eye; 
And German gentles are but sma'. 

They're better just than want aye 
On onie day. 

God bless you a' ! consider now, 

Ye're unco muckle dautet ; 
But ere the course o' hfe be thro'. 

It may be bitter sautet : 
And I hae seen their coggie fou. 

That yet hae tarrow't at it ; 
But or the day was done, I trow. 

The luggen they hae clautet 

Fu' clean that day. 



i SarD's drpitajiti. 

Is there a whim-inspired fool, 

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool. 

Let him draw near ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool. 

And drap a tear. 
Is there a bard of rustic song. 
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among. 
That weekly this area throng. 

Oh, pass not by ! 
But, with a frater-feeling strong. 

Here, heave a sigh. 
Is there a man, whose judgment clear. 
Can others teach the course to steer. 
Yet rims, himself, life's mad career. 

Wild as the wave ; 
Here pause — and, through the starting tear, 

Survey this grave. 
The poor inhabitant below. 
Was quick to learn, and wise to know. 
And keenly felt the friendly glow. 

And softer flame ; 
But thoughtless follies laid him low. 

And stain' d his name! 
Reader, attend — whether thy soid 
Soar's fancy's flights beyond the pole. 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole. 

In low pursuit ; 
Know, prudent, cautious self- control 

Is wisdom's root. 



THE TWA DOGS. 



13» 



f Ijr Cm JDngs, 

A TALE. (118) 

'TWAS in that place o' Scotland's isle 

That bears the name o' Auld King Coil (119), 

Upon a bonnie clay in June, 

"When wearing; tlirougli the afternoon, 

Twa dogs that were na tlirang at hame, 

Forgather'd auce upon a time. 

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cresar, 
Was keepit for his honour's pleasure ; 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 
Biit whalpit some place far abroad, 
Whare sailor's gang to fish for cod. 

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar 
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar ; 
But though he was o' high degree. 
The fient a pride — nae pride had he ; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressin'. 
E'en \vi' a tinkler-gipsy's messin'. 
. At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, though ere sae duddie. 
But he wad stau't, as glad to see him, 
And stroan't on staues and hillocks wi' liim. 
The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, raving bUlie, 
"Wlia for his friend and comrade had him. 
And in his freaks had Lnath ca'd him, 
After some dog in Highland sang (120), 
Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang. 
He was a gash and faithful tyke. 
As ever lap or sheugh or dyke. 
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face. 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his touzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gaucie tale, wi' upward curl. 
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl. 

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither. 
And unco pack and thick thegither : 
Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit. 
Whyles mice and moudicworts they howkit ; 
Whyles scour' d awa in lang excursion. 
And worried ither in diversion ; 
Until wi' datfin' weary grown. 
Upon a knowe they sat them down. 
And there began a lang digression 
About the lords o' the creation. 

CESAR. 

I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, 
'What sort o" life poor dogs like you have ; 
And when the gentry's life I saw. 
What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 

Our laird gets in his racked rents, 
His coals, his kain, and a' liis stents ; 



He rises when he likes himsel ; 

His flunkies answer at the bell ; 

He ca's liis coach, he ca's his horse ; 

He draws a bonnie silken purse 

As lang's my tail, whare, through the steeks. 

The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiling. 

At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 

And though the gentry first are stechiu. 

Yet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechan 

Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie: 

That's little short o' downright wastrie. 

Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner. 

Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner. 

Better than ony tenant man 

His hanour has in a' the Ian' ; 

And what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 

I own its past my comprehension. 

LUATII. 

Trowth, Cjcsar, whyles they're fash' t enough; 
A cotter howkin' in a sheugh, 
Wi' dirty stanes bigj^in' a dyke. 
Baring a quarry, and sic like ; 
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, 
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans. 
And nought but his han' dark, to keep 
Them right and tight in thack and rape 
And when they meet wi' sair disasters. 
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, . 
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch Linger, 
And they maun starve o' cauld or hunger; 
But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet, 
Theyre' maistly wonderfu' contented : 
And buirdly chiels, and clever hizzies. 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 

C.F.SAR. 

But then to see how ye're neglecit. 
How huff'd, and cuif'd, and disrespeckit I 
L — d, man, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle ; 
They gang as saucy by poor folk, 
As I wad by a stinkin' brock. 
I've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day, 
And mony a time my heart's been wae. 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash. 
How they maun thole a factor's snash ; 
He'll stamp and threaten, curse and swear, 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
AMiile they maun stan', wi' aspect humble. 
And hear it a', and fear and tremble ! 
I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches I 

LUATH. 

They're no sae wTCtched's ane wad tliiuk; 
Tiio' constantly on poortith's brink : 
They're sae accustoin'd wi' the sight. 
The view o't gies tlicm little fright. 



140 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Then chaiicu and fortune are sae gviideJ, 
They're aye in less or raair provided ; 
And tlio' fatigu'd wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Their grushie weans and faithfii' wives ; 
The prattling things are just their pride, 
That sweetens a' their fire-side ; 
And whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy- 
Can make the bodies unco happy ; 
They lay aside their i)rivate cares, 
To mind the Kirk and State affairs : 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
'VVi' kindling fury in tlieir breasts. 
Or tell what new taxation's comin'. 
And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 
As bleak-fac'd Hallo^^■mas returns. 
They get the jo\ial, ranting kirns. 
When rural life, o' ev'ry station. 
Unite in common recreation ; 
Love blinks, Wit slaps, and social Mirth 
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 
That merry day the year begins, 
Tliey bar the door on frosty win's ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream. 
And sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The luntin pipe, and sneeshin mill. 
Are handed round wi' right guid will ; 
The^ cantie auld folks crackin' crouse. 
The young anes rantin' thro' the house — 
My heart has been sae fain to see them. 
That I for joy hae barkit wit' them. 
Still it's owre true that ye hae said. 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd, 
There's monie a creditable stock 
O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k. 
Are riven out baith root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' gi-etd to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle master, 
Wha' aiblins thrang a parliamentin'. 
For Britain's guid his saul indeutiu' 

C/ESAR. 

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ; 

For Britain's guid ! guid faith, I doubt it. 

Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him. 

And saying ay or no's they bid him : 

At operas and plays parading. 

Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading : 

Or may be, in a frolic daft. 

To Hague or Calais takes a waft. 

To mak a tour and tak a whirl. 

To learn hun ton, and see the worl'. 

There' at Vienna or Versailles, 

He rives his father's auld entails ; 

Or by Madrid he takes the route, 

I'o thrum guitars, audfecht wi' nowte; 



Or down Italian vista startles, 

W-re hunting amaiig groves o' myrtles ; 

Then bouses drumly German water. 

To mak himsel' look fair and fatter. 

And clear the consequential sorrows. 

Love-gifts of Carnival signoras. 

For Britain's guid! — for her destruction! 

^Vi' dissipation, feud, and faction. 

LUATH. 

Hech man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate ! 
Are we sae foughten and harass' d 
For gear to gang that gate at last ! 

Oh would they stay aback frae courts. 

And please themselves wi' countra sports. 

It wad for ev'ry ane be better. 

The Laird, the Tenant, and the Cotter! 

For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies, 

Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows; 

Except for breakin' o' their timmer. 

Or speakin' lightly o' their limmer, 

Or shootiii' o' a hare or moor-cock. 

The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me. Master Cffisar, 

Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure? 

Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them. 

The vera thought o't need ua fear them, 

C^SAR. 

li — d, man, v.'cre ye but whyles whare I am, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 
It's true, they needna starve or sweat. 
Thro' winter's caidd, or simmer's heat ; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes. 
And fill auld age wi' grips and granes ; 
15ut human bodies are sic fools. 
Fur a' their colleges and schools. 
That when nae real ills perplex them. 
They mak enow themselves to vex them; 
And aye the less they hae to sturt them,' 
In Hke proportion less will hurt them. 
A country fellow at the plough. 
His acre's till'd, he's right eneugh; 
A country girl at her Mheel, 
Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel: 
But Gentlemen, and Ladies warst, 
Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank, and lazy; 
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy; 
Their days insipid, dtdl, aiid tasteless; 
Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless; 
And e'en their sports, their balls and racea^ 
Their gallopping thro' public places. 
There's sic parade, sic pomp, and art. 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
The men cast out in party matches, 
Then sawther a' in deep debauches; 




TITF, rOTTE'R''S -SATTTRDAY MGHT. 



MMENT. 



141 



Ae nisrht they're madwi' drink and wh-riii,^, 
Nicst day their hfe is past enduring. 
The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters. 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither. 
They're a' run deils and jads thegither. 
Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup and platie, 
They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks. 
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
And cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard. 
There's some exception, man and woman ; 
But this is Gentry's life in common. 

By this, the sun was otit o' sight 
And darker gloaming brought the night : 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; 
The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan ; 
\Mien up they gat, and shook their lugs, 
Rejoic'd they were na men, but dogs ; 
And each took off his several way, 
Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 



OCCASIONED BY THE UNFOKTtJNATE 
ISSUE OF A friend's AMOUR. (121) 

" Alas ! how oft does goodness wound itself! 
And sweet affection prove the spring of woe ! " 

Home! 

On thou pale orb, that silent shines, 

While care-untroubled mortals sleep ! 
Thou seest a wretch who inly pines, 

And wanders here to wail and weep I 
With woe I nightly vigils keep. 

Beneath thy wan, un warming beam; 
And mourn, in lamentation deep. 

How life and love are all a dream. 

I joyless view thy rays adorn 

The faintly marked distant hill : 
I joyless view thy trembling horn. 

Reflected in the gurgling rill :\ 
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still ! 

Thou busy pow'r, remembrance, cease ! 
Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 

For ever bar returning peace 1 

No idly-feign'd poetic pains, 

My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim ; 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains ; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame : 
The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 

The oft-attested Pow'rs above; 
The promis'd father's tender name ; 

These were the pledges of my love ! 

Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How liave the raptur'd moments flown 



Ilow have I wish'd for fortune's charms, 
For her dear sake, and her's alone! 
1 And must 1 think it — is she gone. 
My secret heart's exulting boast? 

And does she heedless hear my groan P 
And is she ever, ever lost ? 

Oh ! can she bear so base a heart. 

So lost to honour, lost to truth, 
As from the fondest lover part, 

Tlie plighted husband of her youth \ 
Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth ! 

Her way may lie thro' rough distress ! 
Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe. 

Her sorrows share, and make them less ? 

Ye winged hours that o'er us past, 

Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy' d. 
Your dear remembrance in my breast, 

!My fondly treasur'd thoughts employ'd. 
That breast, how dreary now, and void. 

For her too scanty once of room ! 
Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy' d. 

And not a wish to guild the gloom ! 

Tlie mom that warns th' approaching day. 

Awakes me up to toil and woe : 
I see the hours in long array. 

That 1 must suffer, lingering, slow. 
Full many a pang, and many a tluroe. 

Keen recollection's direful train, 
Must wring my soul, ere Phccbus, low. 

Shall kiss the distant, western main. 

And when my nightly couch I try, 

Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, 
!My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye. 

Keep watchings with the nightly thief : 
Or if I slumber, fancy, chief. 

Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright : 
Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief. 

From such a horror-breathing night. 

Oh 1 thou bright queen, who, o'er th' ex- 
pause, [sway! 

Now highest reign'st, with boimdles3 
Oft has thy sdent-marking glance 

Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray ! 
The tune, unlieeded, sped away. 

While love's luxurious pulse beat high, 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, 

To mark the mutual kindUng eye. 

Oh I scenes in strong remembrance set ! 

Scenes never, never to return ! 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget. 

Again 1 feel, again 1 bum ! 
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, 

Life's weary vale I'll wander tiiro* ; 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mouro 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 



142 



BURNS'S POETICAL "WORKS. 



5l!ilin'33 tn <|pilinlinrg!j. 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and towr'rs. 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat Lepslation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildJy-scatter'd flow'rs. 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 
Here wealth still swells the golden tide. 

As busy Trade his labour plies; 
There Architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise ; 
Here Justice, from her native skies. 

High wields her balance and her rod; 
There learning, with his eagle eyes. 

Seeks Science in her coy abode. 
Tliy sons, Edina ! social, kind. 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind. 

Above the narrow, rural vale ; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 

Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their name ! 
Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn. 

Gay as the gilded summer sky. 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn. 

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy ! 
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 

Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine; 
I see the Sire of Love on high. 

And own his work indeed divine (122) ! 
There, watching high the least alarms. 

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar : 
Like some bold vet'ran, grey in arms. 

And mark'd with many a seaming scar : 
The pond'rous wall and massy bar. 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock ; 
Have oft withstood assailing war. 

And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. 
With awe- struck thought, and pitying tears, 

I view that noble, stately dome. 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 

Fam'd heroes ! had their royal home : 
Alas, how chang'd the times to come ! 

Their royal name low in the dust ! 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam, 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just 1 
Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 

Wliose ancestors, in days of yore. 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : 
Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore, 

Haply, my sires have left their shed, 
j\jid fac'd grim danger's loudest roar. 

Bold-following where your fathers led ! 



Edina ! Scottia's darling seat! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rR, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stcay'd. 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 



®!n; Srigs nf 5li!r. 



INSCRIBED TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESQ., 
AYR. 

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough. 
Learning his tuneful trade fi-om ev'ry bough; 
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush. 
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the greea 

thorn bush ; [shrill. 

The soaring lark, the perching red-breast 
Or deep-ton'd plovers, grey, wild-whistling 

o'er the hill ; 
Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, 
To hardy independence bravely bred. 
By early poverty to hardship steel'd. 
And train'd to arms in stern misfortune's 

field- 
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes. 
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? 
Or labour hard the panegyric close, 
With all the venal soul of dedicating prose .? 
No ! though his artless strains he rudely 

sings, [strings, 

And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the 
He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear re- 
ward! 
Still, if some patron's gen'rous care he trace, 
Skill'd in the secret to bestow with grace ; 
WTien Ballantyne befriends his humble 

name, 
And hands the nistic stranger up to fame. 
With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom 

swells. 
The god-hke bliss, to give, alone excels. 



'Twas when the stacks get on their 

winter-hap, [crap ; 

And thack and rape secure the toil-wou 

Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith 

Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ; 

The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, 

Unnumber'd buds and flow'rs' delicious 

spoils, [piles, 

Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen 

Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the 

weak, [reek : 

The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone 



THE BRIGS OF AYR. 



US 



The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry | 

side, 
The wounded conveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
The feather'd field-mates, bound by ISature's 

tie. 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnag:e lie : 
(\Vha.t warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds. 
And execrates man's savage, rutliless deeds !) 
Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow 

springs ; 
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, 
Except, perhaps, the robin's whistling glee. 
Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang 

tree: 
'fliC hoary morns precede the sunny days, 
Mild, calm, serene, wide-spreads the noon- 
tide blaze, [the rays. 
"While thick the gossamour waves wanton in 
'Twas in that season, when a simple bard. 
Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, 
Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, 
By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' care. 
He left his bed, and took his wayward route. 
And down by Simpson's (123) wheel'd the 

left about : 
OMiethcr impell'd by all-directing Fate 
To ■n^tness what I after shall narrate ; 
Or whether, rapt in meditation high, 
He wander'd out he knew not where or why) 
The drowsy Dungeon-clock (124) had num. 
ber'd two, [was true : 

And Wallace Tower (125) had sworn the fact 
The tide-swoln Firthj with suUen sounding 
roar, [the shore. 

Through the still night dash'd hoarse along 
All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e : 
The silent moon shone liigh o'er tow'r and 

tree: 
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam. 
Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering 
stream. [Bard, 

When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning 
Tlie clanging sugh of whistling wings is 

heard ; 
Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air. 
Swift as the gos (126) drives on the wheel- 
ing hare ; 

Ane on the Auld Brig his airy shape uprears. 
The ither flutters o'er the rising piers : 
Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd 
The Sprites that owtc the Brigs of Ayr pre- 
side. 
(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 
And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk ; 
Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain 
them, ■ [them.) 

And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken 
Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race. 
The very wrinkles Gothic in his face ; 



He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang. 
Yet, teughly doure. he bade an unco bang. 
New Brig wasbuskit in a braw new coal, 
Tliat he at Lon'on, frae ane Adams, got ; 
In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a 

bead, 
Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. 
The Goth was stalking rouud with anxious 

search. 
Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch ;— 
It chauc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e. 
And e'en a vex'd and angry lieart had he ! 
Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modisli mien, 
He, down the water, gies hiui this guid- 

e'eii: — 

AULD BRIG. 

I doubt na', frien', ye'U think ye're nae 
sheepshank, 
Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank I 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho', faith, that day I doubt ye'll never see; 
There'll be, if that date come. 111 wad a 

boddle. 
Some fewer whigmaleeries in your noddle. 

NEW BRIG. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little 

raense. 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street, 
Whare twa wheel-barrows tremble when they 

meet — [lime. 

Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane and 
Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time? 
Tliere's men o' taste wou'd tak the Ducat- 

stream (127), [swim, 

Tho' they should cast the vera sark and 
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the 

view 
Of sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIG. 

Conceited gowkl puff'd up wi' windy 
I pride — [tide ; 

1 Tliis mony a year 1' le stood the flood and 
I And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
i I'll be a Brig, when ye'se a shapeless cairn ! 
i As yet ye little ken about the matter. 
: But twa-three winters will inform ye better. 
j When heavy, dark, continued a'-day rains, 
■ Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; 
' When from the hills where springs the 
j brawling Coil, 

I Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, 
j Or where the Greenock winds his moorland 
course, [source, 

I Or haunted Garpal (128) draws his feeble 
I Arous'd by blust'ring winds and spotting 
! thowes, [rowes; 

' In mony a torrent down his snaw-bruo 



144 



BUENS'S POETICAL "WOEKS. 



Wliile crashing ice, borne on the roaring 
sjieat, [a^te ; 

Sweeps dams and mills, and brigs, a' to the 
And from Glenbuck (129), down to the Rat- 
ton-key (130), [sea — • 
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling 
Then down ye'U hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! 
And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pour- 
ing skies. 
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, 
That Archietcture's noble art is lost ! 

NEW BRIG. 

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must 
say't o't 1 [gate o't ! 

Tlie L — d be thankit that we've tint the 
Gaiuit, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, 
Hanging with threat'ning jut like precipices; 
O'er arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves. 
Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves : 
Wnidows, and doors in nameless sculpture 

drest, 
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; 
Forms like some bedlam Statuary's dream. 
The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; 
Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended 

knee. 
And still the second dread command be free, 
Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, 
or sea. [taste 

]\Iansions that would disgrace the building 
Of any mason reptile, bird or beast ; 
Fit only for a doited monkish race, 
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace; 
Or cuifs of latter times wha held the notion 
That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion ; 
Fancies that our good Brugh denies protec- 
tion ! [resurrection ! 
And soon may they expire, unblest with 

AULD BRIG. 

Oh ye, my dear-remember' d ancient yeal- 

ings, [ings ! 

Were ye but here to share my wounded feel- 

Ye worthy Proveses, and mony a Bailie, 

"Wha in the paths o'righteousness did toil 

aye; 
Ye dainty Deacons and ye douce Conveneers, 
To whom our moderns are but causey- 
cleaners ; 
Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town; 
Ye godly brethren o' the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly ga'e your hm-dies to the smi- 
ters ; [writers ; 

And (what would now be strange) ye godly 
A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo. 
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ! 
How wovdd your spirits groan in deep Texa- 

tion. 
To see each melancholy alteration ; 



And agonising, curse the time and place 

When ye begat the base, degen'rate race! 

Nae langer rev'rend men, their country's 
glory. [braid story ! 

In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain 

Nae longer thrifty citizens and douce. 

Meet owre a pint, or in the councU-housc; 

But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless gen- 
try. 

The herryment and ruin of the country ; 

Men, three parts made by tailors and by 
barbers, [new Brigs and Harbours ! 

Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on d — d 

NEW BRIG. 

Now hand you there ! for faith you've 

said enough, [through ; 

And muckle mair than ye can mak to 
As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little. 
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 
But, under favour o' your langer beard, 
Abuse o' Jlagistrates might wecl be spar'd : 
To liken them to your auld-warld squad, 
I needs must say, comparisons are odd. 
In AjT, wag-wits nae mair can have a handle 
To mouth " a citizen," a term o' scandal ; 
Nae mair the Council waddles down the 

street. 
In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 
Men wha grew wise priggiu' owre hops and 

raisins, 
Or gather'd lib'ral views in bonds and seisins. 
If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp. 
Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp. 
And would to Common-sense for once 

betray'd them, [them. 

Plain, duU Stupidity stept kindly in to aid 



What further clish-ma-claver might been 

said, [shed. 

What bloody wars, if Spirites had blood to 
No man can tell ; but all before their sight, 
A fairy train api)ear"d in order bright : 
Adown the glitt'ring stream tliey featly 

danc'd : [glanc'd : 

Bright to the moon their various dresses 
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat. 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet: 
While arts of minstrelsy among them rung. 
And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. 
Oh, had M'Lauchlan (131), thairm-inspiring 

Sage, 
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage. 
When thro' his dear strathspeys they bore 

with highland rage ; 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting 

air. 
The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares ; 



ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON. 



U» 



H QV wnuW his hiprhland lug been nobler fir'd, 
/Vnd ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch 

inspir'd ! 
No sruess could tell what instniment appear'd, 
But all the soul of Jlusic's self was heard ; 
Harmonious concert rung in every part, 
AVhile simple melody pour'd moviug on the 

heart. 

The Genius of the stream in front appears, 
A venerable Chief advanc'd in years ; 
His hnavy head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound : 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring. 
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with 

Spring ; [Joy, 

Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Kural 
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : 
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, 
Led yellow Autumn, wreath' d with nodding 

com ; [show. 

Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary 
Ry Hospitality with cloudless brow. 
Next follow'd Courage, with his martial 

stride ; [liifle (132) ; 

From where the Feal wild woody coverts 
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air. 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of 

Stair (133) ; 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode. 
From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode 

(134); _ [wreath, 

I,ast, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their 

kiudhng wrath. 



^n (J^aptain BatHjriii ^Jpiihrsnn, 

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT 

FOB HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM 

ALMIGHTY GOD. (135) 

" Should the poor he flattered ?" — Suakspeare, 
But now his radiant course is run, 

For Matthew's course was bright ; 
His soul was like the plorious sun, 

A matchless heavenly light ! 

Oh Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 

The meikle devil wi' a woodie 

Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie. 

O'er hurcheon hides, 
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 

Wi' thy auld sides ! 

He's gane ! he's gane ! he's frae us torn. 
The ae best fellow e'er was boru ! 



Thee Matthew, Nature's scl' shall moiiru 
By wood and wild, 

"Where, haply. Pity stray's forlorn, 
Frae man exil'd ! 

Ye hills ! near neighbours o' the stams. 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns (13G), 

Where echo slumbers ! 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

My wailing numljcrs 1 

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! 

Ye haz'ly shaws and briary dens ! 

Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens, 

W'i' toddliu' din, 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 

Frae hn to lin ! 

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea; 
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie. 

In scented bow'rsj 
Ye roses on your thorny tree. 

The first o' flow'rs. 

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 

Droops with a diamond at its head. 

At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, 

r th' rustling gale. 
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade. 

Came join my wail. 

Jlourn ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood I— • 

He's gane for ever I 

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Kair for his sake. 

Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o* day, 
'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay ; 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cavild shore. 
Tell the far warlds, wha lies in clay 

Wham we deplore. 

Ye owlets, frae your ivy bow'r. 

In some auld tree, or eldritch tow*r. 

What time the moon, wi' silent glow^ 

Sets up her horn. 
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 

Till waukrife morn I 

Oh, rivers, forests, hills, and plains I 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains : 



146 



BUKNS'S rOETICAL WORKS. 



But, now, what else for me remains 

But tales of woe ? 
And frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, spring', thou darling: of the year ! 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : 
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 

Shoots up its head, 
Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear 

For him that's dead. 

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair. 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
Thou, winter, hurling thro' the ait 

The roaring blast. 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 

Jloum him, thou sun, great source of light ; 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling starries bright. 

My Matthew mourn ! 
For through your orbs he's ta'en liis flight. 

Ne'er to return. 

Oh, Henderson ! the man — the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever? 
And hast thou cross' d that unknown river. 

Life's dreary bound ? 
Like thee, where shall I find another. 

The world around ? 

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye great. 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state I 
But by thy honest turf I'll wait. 

Thou man of worth ! 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earth. 

THE EPITAPH. 

Stop, passenger ! — my story's brief 

And truth I shall relate, man ; 
I tell nae common tale o' grief — 

For Matthew was a great man. 
If thou uncommon merit hast. 

Yet spurri'd at fortune's door, man, 
A look of pity hither cast — 

For Matthew was a poor man. 
If thou a noble sodger art. 

That passest by this grave, man, 
There moulders here a gallant heart— 

For Matthew was a brave man. 
If thou on men, their works and ways. 

Canst throw uncommon light, man. 
Here lies wha weal had won thy praise^ 

For Matthew was a bright man. 
If thou at friendship's sacred ca' 

AVad life itself resign, man. 
Thy sympathetic tear maun fa'— 

For Matthew was a kind man I 



If thou art staunch without a stain, 

like the unchanging blue, man. 
This was a kinsman o' thine ain — 

For Matthew was a true man. 
If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire. 

And ne'er guid vnne did fear, man. 
This was thy billie, dam, and sire— 

For Slatthew was a queer man. 
If ony whiggish whingin' sot. 

To blame poor Matthew dare, man. 
May dool and sorrow be his lot ! 

For Matthew was a rare man. 



^m (D' tfljaiittr, 

A TALE. (137) 

" Of brownysis and of bogilis full is this buke." 

GaWIN DoUGUk.8. 

When chapman billies leave the street. 
And drouthy neighbours, neighbours meet. 
As market-days are wearing late. 
And folk begin to tak the gate ; 
While we sit bousing at the nappy. 
And gettin' fou and unco happy. 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles. 
That lie between us and our hame. 
Where sits our sulky sullen dame. 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm. 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 
Tins truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses. 
For honest men and bonnie lasses). 
Oh Tarn ! had'st thou but been sae wise. 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauld the weal thou was a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blelliim ; 
That frae Novembei till October : 
Ae market-day thou was nae sober ; 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller, 
T'hou sat as lang as thou had siller; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on. 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Mon- 
day. (138) 
She prophesied, that, late or soon. 
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon, 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk. 
By AUoway's auld haunted kirk. 
Ah, gentle dames 1 it gars me greet. 
To think how mony counsels sweet. 
How mony lengthcn'd sage advices. 
The husband frae the wife despises; 
But to our tale :— Ae market night, 
Tam had got planted unco right, 



TAM 0' SHANTER. 



147 



Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; 
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither — 
They had been fou' for weeks thegither ! 
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter. 
And aye the ale was growing better : 
The landlady and Tam grew gracious, 
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious. 
The Souter tauld his queerest stories. 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 
The storm without might rair and rustle — 
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 
Care, mad to see a man sae happy. 
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy ; 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure. 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure : 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious. 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. 

But pleasures are like poppies spread. 

You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ; 

Or like the snowfall in the river, 

A moment white — then melts for ever ; 

Or like the boiealis race, 

That flit ere you can point their place ; 

Or like the rainbow's lovely form 

Evanishing amid the storm. 

Nae man can tether time or tide, 
The hour approaches Tam maun ride ; 
That hour, o' night's black arch the key- 

stane. 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast on ; 
And sic a niglit he taks the road in 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 
The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd. 
Loud, deep, and laug the thunder bellow'd: 
That night, a child miglit understand. 
The deil had business on his hand. 
Weal mounted on his grey mare, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg. 
Tarn skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet. 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scot's son- 
net ; 
Whiles glow'ring round wi pr\ident cares, 
FiCSt bogles catcli him unawares. 
Kirk-AUoway was drawing nigh (139), 
Where ghaists and owlets nightly cry. 

By this time he was cross the ford. 
Where in the siiaw the chapman smoor'd ; 
And past the birks and meikle stane. 
Where drunken Ctiarlie brak's neck bane; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn. 
Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn; 



14^ 



And near the thorn, aboon the well. 

Where Mungo's mither hang'd lierseL 

Before him Uoon pours all his floods ; 

The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; 

The lightnings flash from pole to pole, 

Near and more near the thunders roll ; 

AA'hen glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 

Kirk-Ailoway seem'd in a bleeze ; 

Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing. 

And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 

What dangers thou can'st make us scorn I 

Vk'i' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 

Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil ! — 

The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle. 

Fair play, he car'd nae deils a boddle. 

But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd. 

Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd. 

She ventur'd forward on the light ; 

And, wow ! Tam saw an unco sight ! 

Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 

Nae cotillon brent new frae France, 

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels. 

Put life and mettle in their heels : 

A winnock-bunker in the east, 

There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; 

A towzie tyke, black, grim and large. 

To gie them music was his charge ; 

He screw'd the pipes and garb them skirl. 

Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. 

Coffins stood round, like open presses, 

That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; 

And by some devilish cantrip slight 

Each in its cauld hand held a lights 

By which heroic Tarn was able 

To note upon the haly table, 

A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 

Twa span-lang, wee unchristen'd bairns ; 

A thief, new-cuttcd frae a rape, 

Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 

Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted ; 

Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; 

A garter, which a babe had strangled, 

A knife, a father's throat had mangled. 

Whom his ain son o' life bereft. 

The grey hairs yet stack to the heft : 

Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu'. 

Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tamraie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious. 

The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 

The piper loud and louder blew ; 

The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 

They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they 

cleckit, 
Till ilka carline swat and reckit. 
And coost her duddies to the wark. 
And linket at it in her sark ; 
Now Tam, oh Tam ! had thae been que.ins 
A' plump and strapping, in their teen« ; 



) \ 



14S 



BURNS'S POETICAL WOBKS. 



Their sarks, instead o' creesliie flannen, 
Been snaw-wliite seventeen-hunder linen ! 
Their breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
Tliat ance were plush o' guid blue hair, 
1 wad hae gi'en them otf my hurdies, 
For ae blmk o' the bounie hurdies ! 

But wither'd beldams, aidd and droll, 

Kigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, 

IjOiiping and finiging on a cummock, 

I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tam kenn'd what was wliat fu' brawlie ; 

There was a w insome wench and walie. 

That night enhsted in the core, 

(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ; 

For mony a beast to dead she shot. 

And perish'd mony a bonnie boat. 

And shook baith meikle corn and beer. 

And kept the country-side in fear.) 

Her cutty sark, o' Paisley ham. 

That while a lassie she had worn. 

In longitude tho' sorely scanty, 

It was lier best. a:id she was vauutie — 

Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, 

I'hat sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 

AVi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches). 

Wad ever grac'd a dance o' witches ! 

But liere my muse her wing maun cour. 

Sic flights are far beyond lier pow'r ; 

To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 

(A souple jade she was and Strang,) 

And how Tarn stood like ane bewitch'd. 

And thought his very een enrich'd ; 

Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd fu' fain. 

And hotch'd and blew wi' miglit and main : 

Till first ae caper, syne anither, 

Tam tint his reason a' thegither. 

And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark !" 

And in an instant all was dark : 

And scarcely had he Maggie rallied. 

When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke. 

When plundering herds assail their byke; 

As open pussie's mortal foes. 

When, pop ! she starts before their nose; 

As eager runs the market-crowd. 

When " Catch the thief! " resounds aloud j 

So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 

Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow. 

Ah, Tam ! ah, Tam ! thou'll get thy fairin' ! 

In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin' ! 

In V ain thy Kate awaits tliy comin' ! 

Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 

tiow, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 

And win the key-stane (140) o' the brig; 

There at them thou thy tad may toss, 

A running stream they darena cross ! 

But ere the key-stane she could make. 

The hent a tad she had to shake ! 



For Nannie, far befora the rest. 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest. 
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle. 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle— 
Ae spring brought off her master hale, 
But left behind her ain grey tail ; 
The carline cauglit her by the rump. 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read. 
Ilk man and mother's son take heed : 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd. 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind. 
Think ! ye may buy the joys over dear- 
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare. 



Cragir /ragtiirnt, (Hi) 

All devil as I am, a damned wretch, 
A harden'd, stubborn, unrepenting vina.'n. 
Still my heart melts at human wretchedness ; 
And with sincere tho' unavailing sighs, 
I view the helpless children of distress. 
With tears indignant I behold th' oppressor 
Rejoicing in the honest man's destruction. 
Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime. 
Even you, ye helpless crew, I pity you ; 
Ye w horn the seeming good think sin to pity ; 
Ye poor, despis'd, abandon'd vagabonds. 
Whom vice, as usual, has turu'd o'er to ruin. 
— Oh, but for kind, tho' ill-requited friends, 
I liad been driven forth like you forlorn. 
The most detested, worthless wretch among 
you! 



I^^intrr, a Birp. (i42) 

The wintry west extends his blast. 

And hail and rain does blaw; 
Or the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw : 
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down. 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 
And bird and beast in covert rest. 

And pass the heartless day. 

" The sweeping blast, the sky o'crcast" (143), 

The joyless winter day 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
Tlie tempest's howl, it soothes my sou^ 

My griefs it seems to join; 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 

Their fate resembles mine! 

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil. 
Here, firm, I rest, they must behest. 

Because they are thy wilU 



ELEGY ON ROBERT RUISSEAUX. 



149 



Then all I want (oh, do thou grant 
This one request of mine !j 

Since to enjoy thou dost deny. 
Assist me to resign. 



i ^^ratjEr, 



UNDER THK PRESSURE OF VIOLENT 
ANGUISH. (144) 

Oh thou great Being! what thou art 

Surpasses me to know : 
Yet sure I am, that known to Thee 

Are all thy works below. 
Thy creature here before Tliee stands, 

AH wretched and distrest; 
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 

Obey Thy high behest. 
Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
Oh, free my weary eyes from tears. 

Or close them fast in death ! 
But if I must afflicted be. 

To suit some wise design ; 
Then man my soul with firm resolves, 

To bear and not repine ! 



£ ^3raiirr, 

ON THE PROSPECT OP DEATH. 

On thou unknown. Almighty Cause 
Of all my hope and fear ! 
I In whose dread presence, ere an hour, 
I Perhaps I must appear ! 
i If I have wander'd in those paths 
I Of life I ought to shun ; 
I As something, loudly, in my breast, 
I Remonstrates I have done. 
I Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me, 
j With passions wild and strong ; 
And list'ning to their witching voice 

Has often led me wrong. 
Where human weakness has come short. 

Or frailty stept aside. 
Do Thou, All-good ! for such thou art. 

In shades of darkness hide. 
Where with intention I have err'd. 

No other plea I have. 
But, Tliou art good ; and goodness still 
Delighteth to forgive. 



Itan'.as 

ON THE SAME OCCASION. (145) 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene ? 
Have I so found it full of pleasing 
charms? 



Some drops of joy with draughts of ill be- 
tween : [storms : 
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing 
Is it departing pangs my soid alarms ? 

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? 
• For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arras ; 
1 tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging 
rod. 

Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul of- 
fence ! " 
Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But should my Author health again dis- 
pense. 
Again I might desert fair virtue's way : 
Again in folly's path might go astray; 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man; 

Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray. 

Who act so counter heavenly mercy's 

plan? [tation ran? 

Wlio sin so oft have mourn' d, yet to temp- 

Oh Thou, great Governor of all below I 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to 
blow, 
Or still the tumult of the raging sea : 
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me. 
Those headlong furious passions to con- 
fine; 
For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be. 
To rule their torrent in the hallowed line; 
Oh, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence 
Divine ! 



flrgt) nn tjit IDfail; nf IRnhrrf Unissrani. 

(146.) 
Now Robin lies in his last lair. 
He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 
Cauld poverty, wi' Imngry stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him; 
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care. 

E'er mair come near him. 

To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him. 
Except the moment that they crush't him; 
For sune as chance or fate had hush't 'em, 

Tlio' e'er sae short. 
Then wi' a rhyme or song he lash't 'em. 

And thought it sport. 

Tlio' he was bred to kintra wark, 

And counted was baith wight and stark. 

Yet that was never Robin's mark 

To inak a man ; 
But tell him, he was learned and dark. 

Ye roos'd him than ! 



150 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



ffliE Calf. 

TO THE KEV. MR. JAMES STEVEN. (147) 

On his Text, M.\i-. iv. 2.— "And they shall po 
forth, and grow up, like calves of the stall." 
Right, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true, . 

Though Heretics may laugh ; 
For instance, there's yoursel' just now, 

God knows, an unco calf! 
And should some patron be so kind. 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
I doubt na. Sir, but then we'll find, 

Ye're still as great a stirk. 
But, if the lover's raptur'd hour 

Shall ever be your lot. 
Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly power 

You e'er should be a Scot ! 
Tho', when some kind, connubial dear. 

Your but-and-ben adorns. 
The like has been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 
And in your lug, most reverend James, 

To hear you roar and rowte. 
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 

To rank amang the nowte. 
And when ye're number'd wi' the dead. 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head — 

" Here lies a famous bullock I" 



^llB ®raa 23rrii5, 

OR THE HOLY TULZIE. (148) 

Oh a' ye pious godly flocks, 
Weel fed on pastures orthodox, 
Wlia now will keep you frae the fox. 

Or worrying tykes, 
Or wha wiU tent the waifs and crocks. 

About the dykes ? 
Ilie twa best herds in a' the wast. 
That e'er gae gospel horn a blast. 
These live and twenty simmers past. 

Oh ! dool to tell, 
Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast 

Atween themsel. 
Oh, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell, 
How could you raise so vile a bustle, 
Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle. 

And think it fine : 
The L — 's cause ne'er got sic a twistle 

Sin' I ha'e mine. 
0, Sirs ! whae'er wad ha'e expeckit 
Your duty ye wad sae negleckit. 
Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit. 

To wear the plaid. 
But by the brutes themselves eleckit. 

To be their guide. 



V\Tiat flock wi' Hoodie's flock could rank, 
Sae hale and hearty every shank ! 
Nae poison'd sour Arminian stank. 

He let tliem taste, 
Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, they drank — 

Oh sic a feast ! 

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod. 
Well keun'd his voice through a' the wood, 
He smelt their ilka hale and rod, 

Baith out and in. 
And weel he Uk'd to shed their bluid. 

And sell their skin. 

Wliat herd like Russell (149) tell'd his tale, 
His voice was heard thro' mutr and dale. 
He kenn'd the Lord's sheep, ilka tail. 

O'er a' the height. 
And saw gin they were sick or hale. 

At the first sight. 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub. 

Or nobly fling the gospel club. 

And New-Light herds could nicely drub. 

Or pay their skin ; 
Could shake them o'er the burning dub. 

Or heave them in. 

Sic twa — Oh ! do I live to see't. 
Sic famous twa should disagreet. 
And names like villain, liypocrite. 

Ilk ither gi'en, 
WTiile New-Light herds, wi' laughin' spite. 

Say neither's lyin' ! 

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld. 

There's Duncan (150), deep, and Peebles, 

shaul (151), 
But chiefly thou, apostle Auld (152), 

We trust in thee, 
That thou wilt work them, het £bnd cauld. 

Till they agree. 

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset ; 
There's scarce a new herd that we get 
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set 

I winna name ; 
I hope frae heav'n to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 

Dalrymple (153) has been lang our fae, 
M'Gill (154) has wrought us meikle wae. 
And tliat curs'd rascal ca'd M'Q,uhae (155), 

And baith the Shaws (156), 
That aft ha'e made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengefu' paws. 

Auld Wodrow (157) laug has hatch'd mischiel. 
We thought aye death wad bring relief. 
But he lias gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed him, 
A chield wha'U soundly buff our beef; 
1 I meikle dread him. 



HOLY WII.UE'S PKAYER. 



ISl 



And mony a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fail! would openly rebel, 
Forbye turu-coats ainaucj oursel. 

There's Smith for ane, 
I doubt he's but a grey-uick quill, 

And that ye'll tin'. 
Oh ! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills, 
By mosses, meadows, moors and fells. 
Come, join your counsel and your skills 

To cowe the lairds. 
And get the br\ites the powers themsels 

To choose their herds. 
Then Orthodoxy yet may prance. 
And Learning in a woody dance. 
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair. 
Be banish'd o'er the sea to France : 

Let him bark there. 
Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence, 
M' Gill's close nervous excellence, 
Ciuhae's pathetic manlv sense. 

And guid xM'.Math, [153 

Wi' Smith, wha thio' the heart can glance. 

May a' pack aff. 



m\\\ im\it'5 1^x^n. (159) 

Oil Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwelt, 
Wha, as it pleases best thysel'. 
Semis ane to heaven, and ten to hell, 

A' for thy glory. 
And no for ony giude or ill 

They've done afore thee ! 
I bless and praise thy matchless might. 
When thousands thou hast left in night, 
That I am here afore thy siglit. 

For gifts and grace, 
A burnui' and a shiiiin* light 

To a' this place. 
What was I, or my generation, 
That 1 should get sic exaltation, 
I wha deserve sic just damnation. 

For broken laws. 
Five thousand years 'fore my creation. 

Thro' Adam's cause. 
When frae my mither's womb I fell. 
Thou might hae plunged me into hell, 
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, 

In buniin' lake. 
Where damned devils roar and yell, 

Chuin'd to a stake. 
Yet I am here a chosen sample ; 
To show thy grace is great and ample; 
I'm here a pillar in thy temple. 

Strong as a rock, 
A guide, B buckler, an example. 

To a' thy flock. 



But yet, oh Lord ! confess I must. 
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust , 
And sometimes, too, wi' wardly trust. 

Vile self gets in ; 
But thou remembers we are dust, 

Uetil'd in sin. 



Maybe thou lets't this fleshly thorn. 

Beset thy servant e'en and morn. 

Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 

'Cause he's sae gifted ; 
If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne. 

Until thou lift it. 

Lord, bless thy chosen in this place, 
For here thou hast a chosen race : 
But God confound their stubborn face, 

And blast their name, 
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace 

And public shame. 

Lord, mind Gaw'ii Hamilton's deserts. 
He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes. 
Yet has sae mony takin' arts, 

Wi' grat and sma', 
Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts 

He steals awa'. 

And when we chasten'd him therefor^ 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore. 
As set the warld in a roar 

O' laughin' at us ; — 
Curse thou his basket and his storey 

Kail and potatoes. 

Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r. 

Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr; 

Thy strong right hand. Lord, mak it bare 

Upo' their heads. 
Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare. 

For their misdeeds. 

Oh Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd Aikiii, 
My very heart and saul are quakin'. 
To think how we stood groauiu', shakia' 

And swat wi' dread, 
While he wi' hingin' lips and snakin'. 

Held up his head. 

Lord, in the day of vengeance try him. 
Lord, visit them wha did employ him. 
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em. 

Nor hear their pray'r; 
But for thy people's sake destroy 'en^ 

And dinna spare. 

But, Lord, remember me and mine, 
\\ 1' mercies temp'ral and divine. 
That 1 for gear and grace may shine, 

Excell'd by nane. 
And a' the glory shall be thme, 

Ameii, Amen ! 



152 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



(gpitajjlj m Snln XDillif. 



Here Holy AVillie's sair-worn clay 

Taks up its last abode ; 
His soul has ta'en some other way, 

I fear the left-hand road. 
Stop ! there he is, as sure's a gun. 

Poor, silly body, see him ; 
Nae wonder he's as black's the grun'. 

Observe wha's standing wi' him. 
Your brunstane devilship, I see. 

Has got him there before ye ; 
But haud your nine-tail cat a wee, 

Till ance you've heard my story. 
Your pity I will not implore. 

For pity ye hae nane ; 
Justice, alas ! has gi'en him o'er. 

And mercy's day is gaen. 
But hear me, sir, deil as ye are. 

Look something to your credit ; 
A coof like him wad stain your name. 

If it were keut ye did it. 



(Bpistlj tn Snjiii d^nuiiiB nf lilmarnnilt. 

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS 
ESSAYS. (160) 

Oh Goudie! terror of the \\Tiig3, 
Dread of black coats and rev'rend wigs, 
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, 

Girnin', looks back, 
Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues 

VV^ad seize you quicL 
Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition, 
Waes me ! she's in a sad condition ; 
Fie ! bring Black Jock, her state physician. 

To see her water. 
Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion 

She'll ne'er get better. 
Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple. 
But now she's g t au unco ripple ; 
Haste, gie' her name up i' the chapel. 

Nigh unto death ; 
See, how she fetches at the thrapple. 

And gasps for breath. 
Enthusiasm's past redemption, 
Gane in a galloping consumption. 
Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption. 

Will ever mend her. 
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption. 

Death soon will end her. 
Tis you and Taylor (161) are the chief, 
Wha are to blame for this mischief. 
But gin the Lord's ain fouk gat leave, 

A toom tar-barrel 
And twa red peats wad send relief. 

And end the quarrel. 



fpistlr In 3njm f\ankinB, 

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. (1G2) 

On rough, rude, ready-witted Pvankine, 
The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin' I 
There's mony godly folks are thinkin'. 

Your dreams (16 i) and tricks 
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin', 

Straught to Auld Nick's. 
Ye hae sae mony cracks and cants. 
And in your wicked, drunken rants. 
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts. 

And fill them fou (164); 
And then their failings, flaws, and wanta. 

Are a' seen through. 
Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 
That holy robe, oh dinua tear it ! 
Spare' t for their sakes wha aften wear it. 

The lads in black ! 
But your curst wit, when it comes near it, 

Rives't atf their back. 
Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing. 
It's just the blue-gown badge and claithmg 
O' saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e them naethiug 

To ken them by, 
Frae ony unregenerate heathen 

Like you or I. 
I've sent you here some rhymmg ware^ 
A' that I bargahi'd for, and mair ; 
Sae, when you hae an hour to spare, 

I will expect 
Yon sang (165), ye'll sen't wi' canny care. 

And no neglect. 



Cljirli Gfbik in Snljii faprtiilt. (les) 

Septemher 13, 1785. 
Good speed and furder to you, Johnny, 
Guide health, hale ban's, and weather bonny; 
Now when ye're nickau down fa' canny 

The staff o' bread, 
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' brau'y 

To clear your head. 
May Boreas never thresh your rigs. 
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, 
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs and aaggs 

Like drivin" wrack ; 
But may the tapiuast grain that waga 

Come to the sack. 
I'm bizzie too, and skelpin' at it. 
But bitter, daudin' showers hae wat it, 
Sae my aidd stumpie pen I gat it 

Wi' muckle wark. 
And took my jotteleg and whatt' it, 

Like ony dark. 




TAM O oHA.\"l'EK. 



iie "piper Imul 'Uxd. [oxii.^r tle-W; 



EPISTLE TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH. 



153 



Ii's now twa mouth that I'm your debtor. 
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, 
Abusin' rae for harsh ill nature 

On holy men. 
While deil a htrir yoursel' ye're better. 

But mair profane. 
But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, 
! JjCt's sing about our noble sel's ; 

We'el cry nae jads frae heathen hills 
I To help, or roose us, 

But browster wives and whiskey stills, 

They are the muses. 
Yonr friendship. Sir, I winna q<iat it. 
And if ye raak objections at it, 
Then liau' iu nieve some day we'll knot it, 

Aud witness take. 
And when wi' usquebsc we've wat it. 

It winna break 
But if the beast and branks be spar'd 
Till kye be gaun without the herd. 
And a' the vittel in the yard. 

And theekit right, 
I mean your ingle-side to guard 

Ae winter night. 
Then muse-inspirin' aqua vitaj 
Shall make us baith sae blythe and witty 
I Till ye forget ye're auld and gatty. 

And be as canty 
As ye were nine year less than thretty. 

Sweet ane and twenty ! 
But stocks are cowpet wi' the blast, 
And now the sinn keeks in the west, 
llien I maim rin amang the rest 

And quat my chanter ; 
Sae I suhscribe myself in haste 

Your's Rab the Ranter. 

epistlu in llic mm. SnjnTH'Batlj. (i67) 

September 17, 1785. 
While at the stook the shearers cow'r 
To shun the bitter blaudin' sliow'r. 
Or in gulravage rinnin' scow'r 

To pass the time. 
To you 1 dedicate the hour 

In idle rhyme. 
My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet 
On gown, and ban', and douse black bonnet. 
Is grown right eerie now she's done it, 

Lest they should blame her. 
And rouse their holy thunder on it. 

And anathem her. 
I own 'twas rash, and rather hardy, 
Tliat I, a simple, countra bardie, 
Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, 

AVha, if they ken me. 
Can easy, wi' a single wonlic. 

Louse h-ll upon me. 



But I gae mad at their grimaces. 
Their sighin', cantiu', grace-proud faces, 
Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces 

Their raxin' conscience, 
Whase greed, revenge, and pride disgraces, 

Waur uor their nonsense. 

There's Gawn (168),misca't waur than a beasC 
AVha has mair honour in his breast 
Thau mony scores as guid's the i)riest 

Wha sae abus't liiui. 
And may a bard no crack his jest 

What way they've use't him? 

See him, the poor man's friend in need. 
The gentleman iu word and deed, 
Aud shall his fame and honour bleed 

By worthless skclhuus. 
And not a muse erect her head 

To cowe the blellums ? 

Oh, Pope, had I thy satire's darta 
To gie the rascals their deserts, 
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts. 

And tell aloud 
Tlieir jugglin' hocus-pocus arts 

To cheat the crowd. 
God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be^ 
Nor am I even the thing I cou'd be. 
But twenty times I rather wou'd be 

An atheist clean. 
Then under gospel colours hid be 

Just for a screen. 
An honest man may like a glass. 
An honest man may like a lass, 
But mean revenge, and malice fause, 

He'll still disdain, 
And then cry zeal for gospel laws. 

Like some we ken. 

Tliey take religion in their month ; 
They talk o' mercy, grace, and truth. 
For what ? — to gie their malice skouth 

On some puir wight. 
And hunt him down, o'er right aud ruth. 

To ruin straight. 

All hail. Religion ! maid divine ! 
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine. 
Who iu her rough imperfect line. 

Thus daurs to name thee j 
To stigmatise false friends of thine 

Can ne'er defame thee. 
Tho' blotch't and foul wi' mony a stain. 
And far unworthy of thy train. 
With trembling voice 1 tune my strain 

To join with those 
Who boldly daur thy cause maintain 

In spite o' foes : 
In spite o' crowds, iu spite o' mobs. 
In spite o' uudermiuing jobs. 



! 



154 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



In spite o' dark banditti stabs 

At worth andrit 
By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, 

But hellish spite. 
Oh Ayr ! my dear, rriy native ground. 
Within thy presbyterial bound 
A candid lib'ral band is found 

Of public teachers. 
As men, as Christians too, renown'd. 

And manly preachers. 
Sir, in that circle you are nara'd ; 
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; 
And some, by whom your doctrine's blara'd 

(Which ffies you honour), 
Ev'n Sir, by them your iieart's esteem'd. 

And winning manner. 
Pardon this freedom I have ta'eu. 
And if impertinent I've been. 
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane 

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye. 
But to his utmost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd ye. 

®!li! Mrarriran tlJar, 

A FRAGMENT. (169) 

When Guildford good our pilot stood. 

And did our helm thraw, man, 
Ae night, at tea, began a plea. 

Within America, man : 
Then up they gat the maskin'-pat. 

And in the sea did jaw, man ; 
And did nae less, in full Congress, 

Than quite refuse our law, man. 
Then thro' tiie lakes IMontgomery takes, 

I wat he was na slaw, man ; 
Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn. 

And Carleton did ca' man ; 
But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec, 

-Montgomery -like did fa', man, 
Wi' sword in hand, before his band, 

Araang his en'mies a', man. 
Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage. 

Was kept at Boston ha', man ; 
Till Willie Howe took o'er the kuowe 

For Philadelphia, man : 
Wi' sword and gun he thought a sin 

Guid Christian blood to draw, man : 
But at New York, wi' knife and fork. 

Sir-loin he hacked sma', man. 
Burgoyne gaed up, like spur and whip. 

Till Fraser brave did fa', man ; 
Then lost his way, ae misty day, 

In Saratoga shaw, man. 
Cornwallis fought as laiig's he dought. 

And did the buckskins claw, man ; 
But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save. 

He hung it to the wa', man. 



Then ilontague, and Guildford, too. 

Began to fear a fa', man ; 
And Sackville dour, wha stood the stourci 

The German Chief to thraw, iiiui: : 
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, 

Nae mercy had at a', man ; 
And Charlie Fox threw by the box. 

And lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. 
Then Rockingham took up the game. 

Till death did on him ca', man ; 
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek. 

Conform to gospel law, man ; 
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise. 

They did his measures thraw, man. 
For North and Fox united stocks. 

And bore him to the wa', man. 
Then clubs and hearts were Charlie's cartes, 

He swept the stakes awa', man. 
Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race^ 

liCd him a sair/^(i(.i' pas, man ; 
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads. 

On Chatham's boy did ca', man ; 
And Scotland drew her pipe, and blew, 

" Up, Willie, waur them a', man !" 
Behind the throne then Grenville's gon 

A secret word or twa, man ; 
While slee Diindas arous'd the class. 

Be-north the Roman wa', man ; 
And Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, 

(Inspired Bardies saw, man) 
Wi' kindling eyes cry'd, " Willie, rise ! 

Would I hae fear'd them a', man ?" 
But, word and blow. North, Fox, and Co., 

Gowlf'd Willie like a ba', man. 
Till Suthroii raise, and coost their claise 

Behind hiin in a raw, man ; 
And Caledon threw by the drone. 

And did her whittle draw, man ; 
And swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt and blood. 

To make it guid in law, man. (170) 



luinuii (Bpisilj in limt, 

A BROTHER POET. 
AULD NEIBOR, 

I'm three times douWy o'er your debtor, 
For your auld-farraut, frien'ly letter ; 
The' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter. 

Ye speak sae fair. 
For ray puir, silly, rhymiu' clatter 

Some less maun sair. 
Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle : 
Lang may your elbock jink and diddle. 
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle 

O' war'ly cares. 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld, gray hairs. 



THE FIRST PSALM. 



156 



But, Da\-ie laJ, I'm red ye're glaikit ; 
I'm tauld tlie muse ye hae negleckit; 
And gif it's sae, ye sud be licket 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket, 

Be hain't wha like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 
Rivin' the words to gar them clink ; 
Whyles daez't wi' love, why lea daez't wi' 
drink, 

Wi' jada or masons ; 
And whyles, but aye owre late, I think 

Braw sober lessons. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commeu' me to the bardie clan ; 
Except it be some idle plan 

O' rhymin' chnk. 
The devil-haet, that I sud ban. 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o'liviu' 
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin' ; 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in. 

And while ought's there. 
Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin'. 

And fash nae mair. 

Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure. 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure. 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark, or leisure. 

The Muse, poor hizzie ! 
Tho' rough and raploch be her measure. 

She's seldom lazy. 

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Dane : 
The warl' may play you monie a shavie ; 
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae puir, 
Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie 

Frae door to door. 



All hail ! inexorable lord ! 

At whose destruction-breathing word 

The mightiest empires fall ! 
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train. 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart ! 
For one has cut my dearest tie. 
And quivers in my heart. 
Then low'ring and pouring. 

The storm no more I dread ; 
Though thick'ning and black'uing 
Round my devoted head. 



And thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd, 
While life a pleasure can afford. 

Oh hear a wretch's prayer ! 
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid ; 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid. 
To close this scene of care 1 
Wlien shall my soul, in silent peace. 

Resign life's joyless day ; 
My weary heart its throbbings cease, 
Cold mould'ring in the clay ? 
No fear more, no tear more. 
To stain my lifeless face ; 
Enclasped, and grasped 
Within thy cold embrace ! 



f IjE /irst m ilrrsrs nf IIjb SSinrliEtli 
^3salra. 

Oh Thou, the first, the greatest friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling place ! 

Before the mountains heav'd their heads. 

Beneath Thy forming hand. 
Before this ponderous globe itself 

Arose at Thy command ; 

That Pow'r which raised and still upholds 
This universal frame, 
[ From countless, unbeginning time 
Was ever still the same. 

Tliose mighty periods of years 

Which seem to us so vast. 
Appear no more before Thy sight 

'i'han yesterday that's past. 

Thou giv'st the word : Thy creature, man. 

Is to existence brought ; 
Again Thou say'st, " Ye sons of men. 

Return ye into nought I " 

Thou layest them with all their cares 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with a flood Thou tak'st them off 

With overwhelming sweep. 

They flourish like the morning flow'r. 

In beauty's pride array 'd; 
But long here night, cut down, it lies 

All wither'd and decay'd. 



15 



®lu /irst ^c^salra. 

The man, in life wherever plac'd. 

Hath happiness in store, 
Who walks not in the wicked's way. 

Nor learns their guiliy lotel 



156 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Nor from the seat of scornful pride 
Casts forth his eyes abroad, 

But with humihty and awe 
Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees 
VVliich by the streamlets grow ; 

The fruitful top is spread ou high' 
And firm the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds in guilt, 
Sliall to the ground be cast. 

And, like the rootless stubble,' tost 
Before the sleeping blast. 

For why ? that God the good adore 
^ Hath giv'n them peace and rest. 
But hath decree(l that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



I wad na been surpris'd to spy 
You on an auld wife's flannen toy; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

On's wyliecoat ; 
But Miss's fine Lunardi ! fie ! (172) 

How daur ye do't ? 
Oh, Jenny, dinna toss your head. 
And set your beauties a' abreadl' 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makin' ! 
Ihae winks and finger-ends, I dread, 

Are notice takiii'! 

Oil wad some power thegiftie gieus 
To see oursels as others see us ! 
It wad frae mony a blunder free us 

And foolish notion : 
What airs in dress and gait wad lea'e us 

And ev'n devotion ! 



ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY's BONNET, 
AT CHURCH. (171) 

Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie ! 
Your impudence protects you sairly : 
I canna say but ye struut rarely, 
„, , Owe gauze and face ; 

iiio, faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 
On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepin', blastit woniier. 
Detested, sliunn'd, by saunt and'sinner 
How dare you set your feet upon her, ' 

Sae fine a lady! 
Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner 

On some poor body. 

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle • 
There ye may creep, and sprawl and sprattle 
Wi ither kindred, jumping cattle, 
„„ In shoals and nations ; j 

Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle 

Your thick plantations. | 

Now hand you there, ye're out o' sio-ht 
Below the fatt'rells, snug and tio-ht ■ ' 
Na, faith ye yet ! ye'U no be right 

Till ye've got on it, 
Ihe vera tapmost, tow'ring height 

O' Miss's bonnet. 

My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose out 
As plump and grey as ony grozet ; 
Oh for some rank, mercurial rozet,' 

Or fell, red smeddum' 
I d gie you sic a hearty dose o't. 

Wad dress your droddum ! 



CljE Snnrntnrij. 



IN ANSWER TO A MANDATE BY THH 
SURVEYOR OF THE TAXES, (173.) 

Sir, as your mandate did request, 
I send you here a faithfu' list 
O' gudes and gear, and a' my graith. 
To which I'm clear to gie my aith. ' 

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I have four brutes o' gallant mettle, ' 
As ever drew afore a pettle 
My han' afore's (174j a gude auld has been 
And wight and wilfu' a' his days been 
My han' ahin's (17.5) a weel gaun filly, 
lliat aft has borne me hamefrae Killie (176), 
And your auld burro' mony a time. 
In days when riding was nae crime — 
But ance, whan in my wooing pride, 
I like a blockhead boost to ride. 
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to,' 
(L— pardon a' my sins and that too !) 
I I play'd my filly sic a shavie, 
She'a a' bcdevil'd with the spavie. 
My fur ahin's (177) a wordy beast. 
As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd. 
The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie, 
A d— u'd red wud Ivilburnie blastie! 
Forbye a cowte o' cowtes the wale. 
As ever ran afore a tail. 
If he be spar'd to be a beast. 

He'll draw me fifteen pun' at least 

Wheel carriages I hae but few. 
Three carts, and twa a feckly new ; 
Ae auld wheelbarrow, niair for token, 
Ae leg and baith the trams are broke'a; 
I made a poker o' the spin'le. 
And my auld mither brunt the trin'le. 



I 



WILLIE CHAL]\IERS. 



167 



For men, 1 re three mischievous boys. 
Run dc'iis iuf rantin' and for noise; 
A gaudsnian ane, a thrasher t'other. 
Wee Davock hands the newt in father. 
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly. 
And aften labour them completely ; 
And aye on Sundays duly, nightly, 
I on the Questions targe them tightly ; 
Till, faith, wee Davock's turn'd sae gleg, 
Tho' scarcely lauger than your leg. 
He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling (178), 
As fast as ony in the dwaOing. 
I've nane in female servan' station, 
(L — keep me aye frae a' temptation !) 
I hae nae wife — and that my bliss is. 
And ye have laid nae tax on misses ; 
And then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me, 
I ken the devils dare na touch me. 
\Vi' weans I'm mair than weel contented, 
Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted. 
My sonsie smirking dear-bought Bess (179), 
She stares the daddy in her face. 
Enough of ought ye like but grace; 
But her, my bonny sweet wee lady, 
I've paid enough for her already. 
And gin ye tax her or her mither, 
B' the L--! ye'se get them a' thegither. 

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 
Nae kind of licence out I'm takiu' ; 
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle. 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 
My travel ao n foot I'll shank it, 
I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit. 
Sae dinna put me in your buke. 
Nor for my ten white shillings luke. 

Tliis list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it. 
The day and date as under noted ; 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
Subscripsi huic, 

Robert Burns 
Mossgiel, February 22, 1786. 



a Untf tn Qmn SJamiiinti, ^5^., 

MAUCHLINE. 
(recommending a boy.) 

Mossgiel, May 3, 1786. 
I HOLD it. Sir, my bounden duty, 
To warn you how that Master Tootie, 

Alias, Laird M'Gami, 
Was here to hire yon lad away 
"Bout whom ye spak the tither day. 
And wad hae don't aff lian* : 



But lest he learn the callan tricks. 

As, faith, I muckle doubt him. 
Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks (180), 
And tellin' lies about them : 
As lieve then, I'd have then. 

Your clerkship he should sair. 
If sae be ye may be 
Not fitted other where. 

Altlio' I say't, he's gleg enough. 

And 'bout a house that's rude and rough, 

The boy might learn to swear ; 
But then wi' you he'll be sae taught, 
A get sic fair example straught, 

1 havena ony fear. 

Ye'U catechise him every quirk. 

And shore him weel wi' hell ; 

And gar him follow to the kirk — 

— Aye when ye gang yoursel. 

If ye then maun be then 

Frae hame this comin' Friday ; 
Then please. Sir, to lea'e. Sir, 
The orders wi' your lady. 

My word of honour I hae gien. 

In Paisley John's, that night at e'en. 

To meet the warld's worm; 
To try to get the t va to gree. 
And name the airless (181) and the fe^ 

In legal mode and form : 
I ken he weel a snick can draw. 
When simple bodies let him ; 
And if a devil be at a'. 
In faith he's sure to get him. 
To phrase you, and praise you. 
Ye, ken your Laureat scorns : 
The pray'r still, you share still. 
Of grateful Minstrel Burns. 



Wm (Pljalinrrs. (182) 

Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride. 

And eke a braw new brechan. 
My Pegasus I'm got astride. 

And up Parnassus pechin; 
Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush, 

The doited beastie stammers ; 
Then up he gets and off he sets 

For sake o' Willie Chalmers. 

I doubt na, lass, that weel kenu'd name 

May cost a pair o' blushes ; 
I am nae stranger to your fame. 

Nor his warm urged wishes. 
Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet, 

His honest heart enamours. 
And faith ye'U no be lost a w hit, 

Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers. 



158 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Aiild truth hersel' might swear j'e're fair. 

And honour safely back her. 
And modesty assume your air. 

And ne'er a ane mistak' her : 
And sic twa love inspiring een 

Might fire even holy Palmers ; 
Nae wonder then they've fatal been 

To honest Willie Chalmers. 

I doubt na fortune may you shore 

Some mim-mou'd pouther'd priestie, 
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore. 

And band upon his breastie : 
But oh ! what signifies to you 

His lexicons and grammars ; 
The feeling heart's the royal blue, 

Aad that's wi' Willie Chalmers. 

Some gapin' glowrin' countra laird, 

]\Iay warsle for your favour ; 
May claw his lug, and straik hia beard. 

And hoast up some palaver. 
Jly bonnie maid, before ye wed 

Sic clumsy-witted hammers, 
Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp 

Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers. 

Forgive the Bard ! my fond regard 

For ane that shares my bosom. 
Inspires my muse to gie'm his dues, 

For deil a hair I roose him. 
May powers aboon unite you soon, 

And fructify your amours. 
And every year come in mair dear 

To you and WiUie Chalmers. 



f inrs miliEii nn a ©auk inip. (i83) 

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf. 

Fell source o' a' my woe and grief : 

For lack o' thee Pve lost my lass. 

For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass. 

I see the children of affliction 

Unaided, through thy cursed restriction. 

I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile 

Amid his hapless victim's spoil, 

And, for thy potence, ^ainly wish'd 

To crush the villain in the dust. 

For lack o' thee I leave this much loved 

shore. 
Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. 
R. B.— Kyle. 



Speaking silence, dumb confession. 

Passion's birth, and infants' play. 
Dove-like fondness, chaste concession. 

Glowing dawn of brighter day. 
Sorrowing joy, adieu's last action. 

When ling'ring lips no more must join; 
What words can ever speak affection. 

So thrilling and sincere as thine ! 



f n a 1Rts5. (184) 

Humid seal of soft affections, 
Tend'rest pledge of future bliss. 

Dearest tie of young connections. 
Love's first snow-drop, virgin kiss. 



^jtrrsrs 'ttJrittrn nnhr ^inlznt §M. 

(185) 

Accept the gift a friend sincere 

Wad on thy worth be pressin' ; 
Remembrance oft may start a tear. 
But oh ! that tenderness forbear. 

Though 'twad my sorrows lessen. 
My 'morning raise sae clear and fair, 

I thought sair storms wad never 
Bedew the scene ; but grief and care 
In wildest fury hae made bare 

]\Iy peace, ray hope, for ever ! 
You think Pra glad ; oh, I pay weel. 

For a' the joy I borrow. 
In solitude — then, then I feel 
I canna to mysel' conceal 

My deeply ranklin' sorrow. 
Farewell ! within thy bosom free 

A sigh may whiles awaken ; 
A tear may wet thy Uiugliin' ee, 
For Scotia's son — ance gay like thee— 

Now hopeless, comfortless, forsaken ! 



LYING AT A FRIEND S HOUSE ONE NIGHT, 
THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING 

IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. (18G) 

Oh thou dread Power, who reign'st above, 

I know thou wilt me hear, 
Wlien for this scene of peace and love 

I make my prayer sincere ! 
The hoary sire — the mortal stroke. 

Long, long, be pleased to spare. 
To bless his filial Uttle flock 

And show what good men are. 
She, who her lovely offspring eyes 

With tender hopes and fears. 
Oh, bless her with a mother's joys. 

But spare a mother's tears ! 
Their hope, their stay, their darling youtk. 

In manhood's dawning blush — 
Bless hira, thou God of love and truth. 

Up to a parent's wish 1 



EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. 



159 



The beauteous, seraph sister-baud. 

With earnest tears I pray, 
Ihou know'st the snares on every hand — 

Guide Thou their steps ahvay. 
When soon or late they reach that coast. 

O'er hfe's rough ocean driven. 
May they rejoice, no wanderer lost, 

A family in hea\ en ! 



^n air. B'ilhm, 



or CRAIGEN-GILLAN. 

Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, 

I trow it made me proud; 
" See wha taks notice o' the bard !" 

I lap and cried fu' loud. 
Now deil-ma-care about their jaw. 

The senseless, gawky million : 
I'll cock my nose aboon them a'^ 

I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan ! 
TVas noble. Sir ; 'twas like yoursel. 

To grant your high protection : 
A great man's smile, ye ken fu' well. 

Is aye a blest infection. 
Tho' by his (187) banes who in a tub 

Match'd Macedonian Sandy! 
On my aiu legs thro' dirt and dub, 

I independent stand aye. 
And when those legs to guid, warm kail, 

^Xi' welcome canna bear me; 
A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, 

A barley-scone shall cheer me. 
Heaven spare you lang to kiss the b eath 

0' many flow'ry simmers ! 
And bless your bonnie lasses baith- - 

I'm tauld they're loosome kimme rs ! 
And God bless young Dunaskin's aird, 

Tlie blossom of our gentry ! 
And may he wear an auld man's Deard, 

A credit to his country. 



finrs nn Brrliiig niitlj SSasiljICiiri Satr. 

(188) 

This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I, RhjTner Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-thir , 
A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, 
Sae far I sprachled up the b ae, 

I diuner'd wi' a L )rd. 
I've been at drucken writers' feasts. 
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests, 

"\Vi' rev'rence be it spoken ; 
I've ev'n join'd the honour'd jorum. 
When mighty squireships of the quorum. 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 

1 



But wi' a Lord ! — stand out my shin, 
A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son I 

Up higher yet my bonnet ! 
And sic a Lord ! — lang Scotch ells twa. 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a'. 

As I look o'er my sonnet. 
But, oh ! for Hogarth's magic pow'r ! 
To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r. 

And how he star'd and stammer'd, 
When goavaii, as if led wi' branks, 
And stumpiu' on his ploughman shanks. 

He in the parlour hamiuer'd. 
I sidling shelter'd in a nook, 
And at his Lordship steal't a look. 

Like some portentous omen ; 
Except good sense and social glee. 
And (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 
I watch'd the symptoms o' the great. 
The gentle pride, the lordly state. 

The arrogant assuming; 
The fient a pride, nae pride had he. 
Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see, 

JIair than an honest ploughman. 
Then from his Lordship I shall learu. 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as weel's another; 
Nae honest worthy man need care 
To meet with noble youthful Paer, 

For he but meets a orother. 



fpistlp in m\n: iCngait. nso) 

Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattiin' Willie! 
Though fortune's road be rough and hilly 
To every fiddling, rhyming billie. 

We never heed, 
But take it hke the unback'd tilly. 

Proud o' her speed. 
When idly goavan whyles we saunter 
Yirr, fancy barks, awa we canter 
Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter. 

Some black bog-hole. 
Arrests us, then the scathe and banter 

We're forced to thole. 
Hale be your heart ! — hale be your fiddle 1 
Lang may your elbock jink and diddle. 
To cheer you through the weary widdle 

O this wild warl', 
Until you on a crummock driddle 

A grey-hair'd carle. 
Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon 
Heaven send your heart-strings aye in 
And screw your temper pins aboon 

A fifth or mair. 
The melancholious, lazy croon 

O' cankrie care. 



160 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



May still your lite rrom day to day 

Nae "lente largo" in the play. 

But "allegretto forte" gay 

Harmonious flow 

A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey- 
Encore ! Bravo ! 

A blessing on the cheery gang 
Wha dearly like a jig or sang. 
And never think o' right and wrang 

By square and rule. 
But as the clegs o' feeling staiig 

Are wise or fool. 

My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase 
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, 
Wha count on poortith as disgrace — 

Their tuneless hearts 1 
May fireside discords jar a base 

To a' their parts ! 

But come, your hand, my careless brither, 
I'th' ither warl', if there's auither — 
And that there is I've little swither 

About the matter — 
We cheek for chow shall jog thegither ; 

I'se ne'er bid better. 

We've faults and failings — granted clearly. 
We're ft-ail backsliding mortals merely. 
Eve's bonnie squad priests wyte them sheerly 

For our grand fa' ; 
But still, but still, I like them dearly — 

God bless them a' 1 

Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers, 
When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers. 
The witching curs'd delicious blinkers 

Hae put me hyte. 
And gart me weet my waukrife winkers., 

Wi' girnin' spite. 

But by yon moon ! — and that's high swearin'» 
And every star within my hearin' ! 
And by her eeu wha was a dear ane 1 

I'll ne'er forget; 
I hope to gie the jads a clearin' 

lu fair play yet. 

My loss I mourn, but not repent it, 
I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it, 
Ance to the Indies I were wonted. 

Some cantrip hour, 
By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted. 

Then, vive V amour I 

Faites mes baissemains respectueuses. 

To sentimental sister Susie, 

Aud honest Lucky ; no to roose you. 

Ye may be proud. 
That sic a couple fate allows ye 

To grace your blood. 



Nae mair at present can I mehsure 

And trowth, my rhymin' ware's nae treasure; 

But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure, 

Be't light, be't dark. 
Sir baid will do himself the pleasure 

To call at Park. 

Robert Burns. 
Moatgiel, 30W Odoher 17S(j. 



fainrnt, 

WRITTEN WHEN THE POET WAS ABOUT 
TO LEAVE SCOTLAND. 

0' ER the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone 

mountain straying, [rave. 

Where thewildwinds of winter incessantly 

AVliat woes wring my heart while intently 

surveying [the wave. 

The storm's gloomy path on the breast of 

Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail, 
Ere ye toss me afar from my lov'd native 
shore ; 
Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in 
Coila's green vale. 
The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more. 

No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll 

wander, [the wave; 

And smile at the moon's rirapled face in 

No more shall my arms cling with fondness 

around her, [her grave. 

For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on 

No more shall the soft tlu'dl of love warm my 

breast, [shore ; 

I haste with the storm to a far distant 

Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall 

rest. 

And joy shall revisit my bosom no more. 



(!l>n a Irntrlj %zxX 

GONE TO THE WEST INiBIES. 

A' YE wha live by sowps o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, 
A' ye wha live and never think. 

Come, mourn wi' met 
Our billie's gieii vis a' jink. 

And owre the sea. 

Lament him a' ye raiitin' core, 
Wlia dearly like a random-splore, 
Nae mair he'U join the merry roar 

In social key ; 
For now he's taeii anither shore. 

And owre the sea I 

The bonny lasses weel may miss him. 
And in their dear petitions place him; 



(190) 



TO A HAGGIS. 



161 



The widows, wives, and a' may bless him, 

Wi tearfu' e'e ; 
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him 

That's owre the sea ! 
Oh fortune, they ha'e room to grumble ! 
Had'st thou taen aff some drowsy bumble, 
Wha can do nought but fyke and fumble, 

'Twad been uae plea ; 
But he was gleg as ony wumble, 

That's owre the sea ! 

Auld cantie Kyle may weepers wear 
And stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ; 
'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear. 

In flinders flee; 
He was her laureat mony a year, 

That's owre the sea ! 
He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west; 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast; 
A jillet brak his heart at last, 

HI may she be ! 
So, took a berth afore the mast. 

And owre the sea. 

To tremble under fortune's cummock. 
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, 
Wi' his proud, independent stomach. 

Could ill agree ; 
So row't his hurdles in a hammock. 

And owre the sea. 

He ne'er was gien to great misguiding. 
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; 
AVi' him it ne'er was under hiding — 

He dealt it free : 
The muse was a' that he took pride in. 

That's owre the sea. 

Jamaica bodies, use him weel. 
And hap him in a cozie bid : 
Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel, 

And fou' o' glee ; 
He wad na wrang'd the vera deil. 

That's owre the sea. 

Fareweel, my rhjTne-composing billie ! 
Your native soil was right ill-willie ; 
But may ye flourish like a lily. 

Now bonnilie ! 
1*11 toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the sea ! 



ON THE BLANK LEAF OP A COPY OP THE 
POEMS, PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEET- 
HEART, THEN MARRIED. 

Once fondly lov'd and still remembered dear; 

Sweet early object of my youthful vows ! 
Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere. 

Friendship ! 'tis all cold duty now allows. 



And when you read the simple artless rhymes, 
One friendly sigh for him — lie Bsks no more. 

Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes. 
Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. 



QfljE /arrrarll. 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer 
Or what does he regard his single woes ? 
But when, alas ! he multiplies himself, 
'J'o dearer selves, to the lov'd tender fair, 
To those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon 

him, 
To helpless children!— then, oh then ! he feels 
The point of misery fest'ring in his heart, 
And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward. 
Such, such am I ! undone !" 

Tuomson'3 Edward and Ehanora, 

Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domain^ 
Far dearer than the torrid plains 

Where rich ananas blow ! 
Farewell, a mother's blessing dear ! 
A brother's sigh ! a sister's tear ! 

My Jean's heart-rending throe ! 
Farewell, my Bess ! tho' thou'rt bereft 

Of my parental care ; 
A faithful brother I have left. 
My part in him thou'lt share ! 
Adieu too, to you too. 

My Smith, my bosom frieu'j 
When kindly you mind me. 
Oh then befriend my Jean ! 

What bursting anguish tears my heart I 
From thee, my Jeany, must I part ! 
Thou, weeping, answ'rest " No !" 
Alas ! misfortune stares my face. 
And points to ruin and disgrace, 

I for thy sake must go ! 
Tliee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear, 

A grateful, warm adieu ! 
I, with a much indebted tear. 
Shall still remember you ? 
All-hail then, the gale then. 

Wafts me from thee, dear shore I 
It rustles, and whistles — 
I'll never see thee more! 



tfn a 



is. (191) 



Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face. 
Great chieftain o' the puddiu'-race ! 
Aboon them a' ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm 
Weel are ye wordy of a grace 

As lang's my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill. 
Your hurdics like a distant hill, 



162 



BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Your pin wad help to mend a mill 

111 time o' need, 
Wliile thro' your pores the dews distil 

Like amber bead. 
His knife see rustic labour diglit. 
And cut you up wi' ready slight, 
Trenching your gushing entrails bright 

Like ony ditch ; 
And then, oh what a glorious sight, 

Warm-reekin', rich ! 
Tlien horn for horn they stretch and strive, 
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive. 
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve 

Are bent like drums ; 
Then auld guid man, maist like to rive, 

Bethankit hums. 
Is there that o'er his French ragout 
Or Olio that wad staw a sow, 
Or fricassee wad make her spew 

Wi' perfect scunner. 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view 

On sic a dinner ! 
Poor devil ! see him owre his trash. 
As feckless as a wither'd rash. 
His spindle shank a guid wiiip-lash. 

His nieve a nit ; 
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash. 

Oh how unfit 1 
But mark the rustic, haggis-fed. 
The trembling earth resounds his tread. 
Clap in his walie nieve a blade. 

He'll mak it whissle ; 
And legs, and arms, and heads wiU sned. 

Like taps o' thrissle. 
Ye pow'rs wha mak mankind your care. 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware 

That jaups in luggies ; 
But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, 

Gie her a Haggis ! 



f n Biss f Egan, raitl; ^nillfs 1{km5, 

AS A NEW year's GIFT, JAN. 1. 1787. 

(192) 
Again the silent wheels of time 

Their annual round have driv'n, 
And you, tlio' scarce in maiden prime. 

Are so much nearer Heav'n. 
No gifts have I from Indian coasts 

The infant year to hail ; 
I send you more than India boasts 

In Edwin's simple tale. 
Our sex with guile and faithless love 

Is charg'd, perhaps, too true; 
But may, dear maid, each lover prove 

Au Edwin still to you I 



(SitptnjinrB m tljE f nnrt nf Irssinn. 

TUNE — Cillicrankie. 
LORD ADVOCATE. (193) 

He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist. 

He quoted and he hinted. 
Till in a declamation-mist. 

His argument he tint it : 
He gaped for't, he graiped for't. 

He fand it was awa, man ; 
But what his common sense came short. 

He eked out wi' law, man. 

MR. ERSKINE. (194) 

Collected Harry stood a wee. 

Then open'd out his arm, man : 
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e, 

And ey'd the gathering storm, man; 
Like wind-driv'n hail, it did assail. 

Or torrents owre a linn, man ; 
The bench sae wise lift up their eyes, 

Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man. 



(195) 
"My cantie, ■witty, rhyming ploughman, 
I hafflins doubt it is na' true, man, 
That ye between the stilts was bred, 
Wi' ploughmen schooled, wi' ploughmen fed 
I doubt it sair, ye've drawn your knowledge 
Either frae grammar-school or college. 
Guid troth, your saul and body baith 
War better fed, I'd gie my aith. 
Than theirs who sup sour milk and parritch. 
And bummil through the single Carritch. 
Whaever heard tlie" ploughman speak, 
Could tell gif Homer -was a Greek I 
He'd flee as soon upon a cudgel, 
As get a single line of Virgil. 
And then sae slee ye crack your jokes 
O' Willie Pitt and Charlie Fox : _ 
Our great men a' sae wee! descrive, 
And how to gar the nation thrive, 
Ane maist wad swear ye dwelt amang them. 
And as ye saw them sae ye sang them. 
But be ye ploughman, be ye peer, 
Ye are a funny blade, I swear ; 
And though the cauld I ill can bide, 
Yet twenty miles and mair I'd ride 
O'er moss and moor, and never grumble, 
Though my auld yad should gie a stumble, 
To crack a winter night wi' thee. 
And hear tliy sangs .and sonnets slee. 
Oh gif I kenn'd but where ye baide, 
I'd send to you a marled plaid ; 
'Twad houd your shouthers warm and braw, 
And douce at kirk or market shaw ; 
Fra' south as weel as north, my lad, 
A' honest Scotsmen loe the maud." 

I MIND it weel in early date. 

When 1 was beardless young, &vA l>late, 
And first could thresh the barn ; 

Or baud a yokin' at the pleugh ; 

And tho' forfoughten sair eueug 
Yet unco proud to learn : 



PROLOGUE. 



163 



When first amang the yellow com 

A man I reckon'd was, 
And wi' the lave ilk merry mom 
Could rank my r\g and lass, 
Still shearing, and clearings 

The tither stocked raw, 
Wi' claivers, and haivers. 
Wearing the day awa. 

E'en then, a wish, I mind its pow'r — 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast — 
That I, for poor aiild Scotland's sake. 
Some usefu' plan or benk could make 

Or sing a sang at least 
The rough burr-thissle, spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
I tum'd the weeder-clips aside. 
And spar'd the symbol dear : 
No nation, no station. 

My envy e'er could raise, 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 

But still the elements o' sang 

In formless jumble, right and wrang, 

"Wild floated in my brain ; 
Till on that hur'st I said before. 
My partner in the merry core. 

She rous'd the forming strain : 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean. 

That lighted up her jingle. 
Her witching smile, her pauky een 
That gart my heart-strings tingle : 
I fired, inspired. 

At every kindling keek. 
But bashing and dashing 
I feared aye to speak. 

Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel saya, 
Wi' merry dance in winter days. 
And we to share in common : 
The gust o' joy, the balm of woe. 
The saul o' life, the heaven below. 

Is rapture-giving woman. 
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name. 

Be mindfu' o' your mither : 
She, honest woman, may think shame 
That ye're connected with her. 
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men 
That slight the lovely dears ; 
To shame ye, disclaim ye. 
Ilk honest birkie swears. 

For you, no bred to barn and byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre. 

Thanks to you for your line : 
The marled plaid ye kindly spare. 
By me should gratefully be ware ; 

*Twad please me to the uiue. 



I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap. 

Douce hingin' owre my curple^ 
llian ony ermine ever lap. 
Or proud imperial purple. 

Fareweel then, lang heal then. 

And plenty be your fa'. 
May losses and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan ca'. 



WRITTEN T7NDER THE PORTRAIT OP FERGUSSON, 
THE POET, IN A COPY OP THAT AUTHOR'S 
WORKS PRESENTED TO A YOUNQ LADY lU 
EDINBURCH, MARCH 19, 1787. 

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be 
pleas'd, [pleasure ! 

And yet can starve the author of the 
Oh thou, my elder brother in misfortune. 
By far my elder brother in the muses. 
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! 
Why is the bard unpitied by the world, 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ? 



fnsrnptian 

ON THE HEADSTONE OP FERGUSSON. 

Here lies 

KoBEET Fergusson, Poet, 

Born, Sept. 5, 1751. 

Died, Oct. 15, 1774. 

No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, 
" No storied urn nor animated bust ;" 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 



SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HJS BENEFIT 
NIGHT. 

Monday, 16th April, 1787. (196) 

When by a generous Public's kind acclaim. 
That dearest meed is granted — honest fame: 
When here your favour is the actor's lot. 
Nor even the man in private life forgot ; 
What breast sodead to heav'nly Virtue's glow. 
But heavesimpassion'dwiththegrateful throe. 

Poor is the task to please a barb'rons 
throng, [song. 

It needs no Siddons' powers in Southern's 
But here an ancient nation fam'd afar. 
For genius, learning high, as great in war— 
Hail, Caledoni.\, name for ever dear ! 
Before whose sons I'm honour'd to appear I 



164 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Where every science — every nobler art — 
That can inform tlie mind, or mend the heart, 
Is known ; as grateful nations oft have found 
Far as the rude barbarian marks the boimd. 
Philosophy, no idle pedant dream, 
Here holds her search by heaven-taught 

Reason's beam ; 
Here history paints with elegance and force. 
The tide of Empire's fluctuating course ; 
Here Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into 

plan. 
And Harley (197) rouses all the god in man, 
"VVheu well-form'd taste and sparkling wit 

unite 
With manly lore, or female beauty bright 
(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and 

grace. 
Can only charm us in the second place). 
Witness my heart, how oft with panting 

fear 
As on this night, I've met these judges here! 
But still the hope Experience taught to 

live, 
Equal to judge — you're candid to forgive. 
No hundred-headed Riot here we meet. 
With decency and law beneath liis feet ; 
Nor Insolence assumes fair Fi-eedom'sname; 
Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame. 

Oh thou dread Power ; whose empire- 
giving hand [land 1 
Has oft been stretch'd to shield the honour'd 
Strong may she glow with all her ancient 

lire! 
May every son be worthy of his sire ! 
Firm may she rise with generous disdain 
At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain ! 
Still self-dependent in her native shore. 
Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest 
roar, [no more. 

Till fate the curtain drop on world's to be 



£pi5tb k lliilliani torr^. 

(198) 

AtJLD chuckle Reekie's (199) sair distrest, 
Down droops her ance weel-burnish'd crest, 
Nae joy her bonuie buskit nest. 

Can yield awa. 
Her darling bird that she lo'es best, 

Willie's ava ! 

Oh Willie was a witty wight. 
And had o' things an unco slight ; 
Auld Reekie aye he keepit tight. 

And trig and braw : 
But now they'll busk her like a fright — 

Willie's awa! 



The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd ; 
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd ; 
They durst nae mair than he allow'd, 

Tliat was a law : 
We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd — 

Willie's awa ! 

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools, 
Frae colleges and boarding-schools, 
J\lay sprout like simmer puddock-stools 

In glen or shaw ; 
He wha could brush them down to mools, 

Willie's awa ! 

The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumei 

(200) 
IMay morn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour ; 
He was a dictionar and grammar 

Amang them a' ; 
I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer — 

Willie's awa ! 

Nae mair we see his levee door 
Philosophers and poets pour, 
And toothy critics by the score. 

In bloody raw ! 
The adjutant o' a' the core, 

Willie's awa! 

Now worthy Gregory's Latin face, 
Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace ; 
Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace 

As Rome ne'er saw ; 
They a' maun meet some ither place, 

Willie's awa ! 

Poor Burns — e'en Scotch drink canna 

quicken. 
He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken, 
Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin 

By hoodie-craw ! 
Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin'— 

Willie's awa ! 

Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin' blellum. 
And Calvin's folk, are fit to fell him ; 
And self-conceited critic skellum 

His quill may draw ; 
He wha could brawlie ward their beUum, 

WiUie's awa! 

Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped. 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
And Ettrick banks now roaring red. 

While tempests blaw ; 
But every joy and pleasure's fled — 

Willie's awa ! 

May I be slander's common speech ; 
A text for infamy to preach ; 
And lastly, streekit out to bleach 

In winter snaw ; 
When I forget thee, Willie Creech, 

Tho' far awa ! 




JOHN ANDERHON MY .1! 



ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL IN LOCH-TURIT. 



165 



May never wicked fortune touzle him ! 
May never v^icked men bamboozle him ! 
Until a pow as aidd's Methusalem 

He canty claw ! 
Then to the blessed New Jerusalem, 

Fleet wing awa ! 

<£>n till! JDratl; nf #ir '^mts Snittrr ffilair. 

(201) 
The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, 
Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western 
wave. [dark'ning air, 

Th' inconstant blast howl'd through the 

And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. 
Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell. 
Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal 
train (202) ; [well (203), 

Or mus'd where limpid streams once hallow'd 
Or mould'ring rwins mark the sacred faue. 
(204) 
Th' increasing blast roared round the beetling 
rocks, [starry sky. 

The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the 
The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, 
And shooting meteors caught the startled 
eye. 
The paly moon rose in the livid east. 

And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately 
form. 
In weeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast. 
And mix'd her wailings with the raving 
storm. 
Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd : 
Her form majestic-droop'd in pensive woe. 

The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 
Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, 

Reclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, 
That like a deathful mtteor gleam'd afar. 
And brav'd the mighty mouarchs of the 
world. 
" My patriot son fills an untimely grave 1 " 
With accents wild and lifted arms — she 
cried ; [save, 

" IjOW lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to 
Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest 
pride. 
A weeping country joins a widow's tear ; 
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's 
cry ; [bier ; 

The drooping arts surround their patron's 
And grateful science heaves the heart-felt 
sigh ! 
1 saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair freedom's blossoms richly blow : 
But ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 
Relentless fate has laid their guardian low. 



My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, 
W^hile empty greatness saves a worthless 
name ? 

No ; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue. 
And future ages hear his growing fame. 

And I will join a mother's tender cares. 

Thro' future times to make his virtue last ; 

That distant years may boast of other 

Blairs ! " — [blast. 

She said, and vauish'd with the sweeping 



(^K ^raring snrai; il^atrr-Zaml in fnri^- 
C urit. 

A WILD SCENE AMONG T»K UILLS OP OCnTEBTTKE. 

Why ye tenants of the lake. 
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake? 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly? 
W hy disturb your social joys. 
Parent, filial, kindred ties ? — 
Common friend to you and me. 
Nature's gifts to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave. 
Busy feed, or wanton lave ; 
Or beneath the sheltering rock. 
Bide the surging billows shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race. 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 
]Man, yoirr proud usurping foe. 
Would be lord of all below : 
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride. 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 
The eagle, from yon cliffy brow, 
Miirking you his prey below. 
In liis breast no pity dwells. 
Strong necessity compels : 
But man, to whom alone is giv'n 
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n 
Glories in his heart humane — 
And creatures for his pleasure slain. 
In these savage, liquid plains. 
Only known to waud'ring swains. 
Where the mossy riv'let strays. 
Far from human haunts and ways ; 
All on Nature you depend. 
And life's poor season peaceful spend. 

Or, if man's superior might 
Dare invade your native right. 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn ; 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings. 
Other lakes and other springs ; 
And the foe you cannot brave. 
Scorn, at least, to be his slave. 



166 



BTJENS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 



ffljE Snm!i!p ^^rtitinii nf ©riiac itatrr. 

TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATIIOLE. (205) 

My Lord, I know your noble ear 

Woe ne'er assails in vani ; 
EmbolJen'd thus, I beg you'll hear 

Your humble slave complain. 
How saucy PhcEbus' scorching beams. 

In flaming summer-pride. 
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams. 

And drhik my crystal tide. 

The lightly-jumpin' glowrin' trouts. 

That thro' my waters play. 
If, in their random, wanton spouts. 

They near the margin stray ; 
If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up so shallow. 
They're left the whitening stanes amang. 

In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen. 

As poet Burns came by. 
That to a bard I should be seen 

Wi' half my channel dry : 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween. 

Even as I was he shor'd mej 
But had I in my glory been. 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks. 

In twisting strength I rin ; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wild roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well. 

As nature gave them me, 
I am, altho' I say't raysel' 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 

Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes, 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees. 

And bonuie spreading bushes. 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks. 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock, warbling wild. 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, music's gayest child. 

Shall sweetly join the choir. 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear. 

The mavis mild and mellow ; 
The robin pensive autumn cheer. 

In all her locks of yellow. 

This, too, a covert shall insure 
To shield them from the storm; 

And coward maukin sleep secure. 
Low iu her grassy form : 



Here shall the shepherd make his seat, 
To weave his crown of flow'rs : 

Or find a shelt'ring safe retreat 
From prone descending show'rs. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth. 

Shall meet the loving pair, 
Despising worlds with all their wealth 

As empty idle care. 
The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms 

The hour of heav'n to grace. 
And birks extend their fragrant axms 

To screen the dear embrace. 

Here, haply too, at vernal dawn. 

Some musing bard may stray. 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn. 

And misty mountain gray ; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam. 

Mild-chequering thro' the trees. 
Rave to my darkly-dashing stream. 

Hoarse swelling on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool. 

My lowly banks o'erspread. 
And view, deep-bending in the pool. 

Their shadows' water'y bed ! 
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest 

My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
And, for the little songsters nest, 

The close embow'ring thorn. 

So may old Scotia's darling hope. 

Your little angel band. 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honour'd native land ! 
So may, thro' Albion's farthest ken. 

To social flowing glasses. 
The grace be — " Athule's honest men. 

And Athole's bounie lasses ! " 



CijiP irrmit. 

■WRITTEN ON A Marble sidecoard, in ihb 

HKRJIITAGE BELO.N'GING TO THE DUKE OP 
ATUOLE, IM THE WOOD OP ABERFELDY. 

Whoe'er thou art, these lines now reading, 
Think not, though from the world receding 
I joy my lonely days to lead in 

This desert drear ; 
That fell remorse a conscience bleeding 

Hath led me here. 

No thought of guilt my bosom sours; 
Free-will'd I fled from courtly bowers ; 
For well I saw in halls and towers 

That lust and pride. 
The arch-fiend's dearest, darkest powers. 

In state preside. 



ELEGY ON LORD DUNDA8 



167 



i saw mankind wiili vice eiicrusteil ; 
I suw that honour's sword was nistud; 
That few for aujcht but folly lusted ; 
That he was still deceiv'd who trusted 

To love or friend ; 
And hither came, with men disgusted, 

jMy life to end. 
In this lone cave, in garments lowly. 
Alike a foe to noisy folly, 
And brow-bent gloomy melancholy, 

1 « ear away 
My life, and in my office holy 

Consume the day. 
This rock my shield; when storms are blowing 
The limpid streamlet yonder flowing 
Supplying di-ink, the earth bestowing 

JNIy simple food ; 
But few enjoy the calm I know iu 

This desert wood. 
Content and comfort bless me more in 
This grot, than e'er I felt before in 
A palace — and with thoughts still soaring 

To God on'^high, 
Each night and morn with voice imploring. 

This wish I sigh. 
" Let me, oh Lord ! from life retire. 
Unknown each guilty worldly fire. 
Remorse's throb, or loose desire ; 

And when I die. 
Let me in this belief expire — 

To God 1 fly." 
Stranger, if full of youth and riot, 
And yet no grief has marr'd thy quiet, 
Thou haply throw'st a scornful eye at 

The hermit's prayer — • 
But if thou hast good cause to sigh at 

Thy fault or care ; 
If thou hast known false love's vexation. 
Or hast been exiled from thy nation. 
Or guilt sitfrights thy contemplation. 

And makes thee pine, 
Oh I how must thou lament thy station. 

And envy mine 1 



WRITTEN WITH A PKNCIL OVER THE CnlMN'EY- 

PIF.CE, IN THE PAULOUIt OF THE INN AT KEN. 

MOltE, TAY.MOUTH. 

Admiuing Nature in her wildest grace, 
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace; 
O'er many a winding dale and painful stL'cp, 
Th' abodes of covied grouse and timid slieep. 
My savage journey, curious, I pursue. 
Till faiu'd Breadclbane opens to my view. 
The meeting clilfs each deep-sunk glen divides. 
The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample 
sides ; 

1 



Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong 

the hills. 
The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; 
The Tay, meand'ring sweet in infant pride. 
The palace, rising on its verdant side ; 
The lawns, woodfriiig'd in Nature's native 

taste ; [haste ; 

Tlie hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless 

The arches, striding o'er the new-born 

stream ; [beam — 

The village, glittering in the noontide 



Poetic ardours in my bosom swell. 
Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell : 
The sweeping thtarre of hanging woods ; 
Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling 
floods- 



Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taiight 

lyre, 
And look through nature with creative fire ; 
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reeoncil'd 
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander 

wUd; 
And disappointment, in these lonely bounds. 
Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling 

wounds : [stretch her scan. 

Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward 
And iujur'd Worth forget and pardon man. 



(Slrgi] nil tljp D.ntlj nf fnril ^JiTsiilEnt 
iDunlias. (soo) 

Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks 
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering 

rocks ; [rains, 

Down from the rivulets, red with dashing 
The gathering floods burst o'er the distant 

plains ; 
Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan; 
The hollow caves return a sullen moaii. 

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves. 
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves! 
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye. 
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly ; 
AVhere to the whistling blast and waters' roar 
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore. 
Oh heavy loss, thy country ill coidd bear I 
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair 1 
Justice, the high vicegerent of her God, 
Her doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd hef 

rod ; 
Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow 
She sank, abandoii'd to the wildest woe 
Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den. 
Now gay in hope explore the patlis of meu : 



168 



BURNS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 



See from his cavern grim Oppression rise, 
And throw on poverty his cruel eyes ; 
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly. 
And stifle, dark, the feebly-burstiug cry. 
Jlark ruffian Violence, distained with crimes 
Housing elate in these degenerate times ; 
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey. 
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way : 
WhUe subtile Litigation's pliant tongue 
The life-blood equal sucks of Right and 

Wrong : [tale, 

Hark, injur'd Want recounts tli' unlisten'd 
And much-wrong'd mis'ry pours th' unpitied 

Wail! 

Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly 

plains. 
To you I sing my grief-inspired strains : 
Ye tempests, rage ! ye turbid torrents, roll ! 
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. 
Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign. 
Be nameless wilds and lonely waudermga 

mine. 
To mourn the woes my country must endure. 
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure. 



itrrsrs 

WRITTEN WHILE STANDING BY THE FALL 
OP FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS. 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods ; 
The foaming Fyers pours his mossy floods. 
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 
Where, thro' a shapeless beach, his stream 

resounds, 
As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 
As deep-recoiling surges foam below. 
Prone down the rock the whitening sheet 

descends. 
And viewless Echo's ear, astonished, rends. 
Dim seen, through rising mists and ceaseless 

show'rs. 
The hoary cavern, wide surrounding low'rs; 
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils. 
And still below, the horrid cauldron boils — 



ON HEADING IN A NEWSPAPER 

f Ijc Dratli nf M)k M'lui, (Bsij., 

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICU- 
LAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S. 

Sad thy tale, thou idle page. 

And rueful thy alarms — 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 
Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew 

The morning rose may blow, 
But cold successive noontide blasts 

May lay its beauties low. 



Fair on Isabella's mom 
The sun propitious smil'd, 

But, long ere noon, succeeding douds 
Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 

Fate oft tears the bosom cords 
That Nature finest strung ; 

So Isabella's heart was form'd. 
And so that heart was wrung. 

Were it in the poet's power, 
Strong as he shares the grief. 

That pierces Isabella's heart. 
To give that heart rehef. 

Dread Omnipotence, alone. 
Can heal the wound lie gave— 

Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes 
To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow. 
And fear no with'ring blast ; 

There Isabella's spotless worth 
Shall happy be at last. 



(Dtt Xmi'im IrailliL (207) 

Shre-w'd Willie Smellie to Crochallan (208) 
came, [same ; 

The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
'T\vas four long nights and days to shaving 
night ; [thatch'd 

His uncomb'd grizzly locks wOd staring, 
A head for thought profound and clear ua- 

match'd ; 
Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude, 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 



mms Itt air. IWWm ^i\\ln, 

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD'S 
PICTURE. (209) 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 
Of Stuart a name once respected — 

A name which to love was the mark of a true 
heart. 
But now 'tis despised and neglected. 

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in 
my eye. 

Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; [sigh, 
A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a 

Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 

My fathers that name have rever'J on a 
throne ; 

My fathers have fallen to right it ; [son. 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate 

That name should he scotfingly slight it. 



I 



TO CLARLNDA. 



169 



btill in prayers for King George I most hear- 
tily joiuj 

The Uueen, and the rest of the gentry. 
Be they wise, he they foohsh, is nothing of 
mine ; 

Their title's avowed by my country, 
But wliy of that epocha make such a fuss, 

That gave us the Hanover stem ; 
If bringing them over was hicky for us, 

I'm sure 'twas as hicky for them. 
But loyalty, truce ! we're on dangerous 
ground, 

"Who knows how the fiishions may alter ? 
The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, 

To-morrow may bring us a halter ! 
I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 

A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 
But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard. 

Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 
Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your 

And ushers the long dreary night ; [eye. 
But you like the star that athwart gilds the 

Your course to the latest is bright, [sky 



51 .fkrtrlj. (210) 

A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart tripping wight. 
And still his precious self his dear delight : 
AMio loves his own smart shadow iu the 

streets. 
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets, 
A man of fashion too, he made his tour, 
Learu'd vive la bagatelle, et vive I'amour 
So travelled monkies their grimace improve, 
Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies love. 
Much specious lore, but little understood ; 
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood : 
His solid sense — by inches you must tell. 
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell ! 
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend 
Still making work his selfish craft must mend. 



Qln 3ilh5 dTriiiksljanks. 

A VERY YOUNG LADY. (211) 

WMTTEM ON THE BLANK LEAP OF A BOOK PRE" 
SENIED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR. 

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, 
Blooming in thy early IMay, 
Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r. 
Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ; 
Never Boreas' hoary path. 
Never Eurus' poisonous breath, 
Never balcfid stellar lights, 
Taint thee with uutimcly blights! 
Never, never reptile thief 
Riot on thy virgin leaf 1 



Nor even Sol too fiercely view 
Thy bosom blushing still with dew! 
JIay'st thou long, sweet crnnson gem. 
Richly deck thy native stem : 
'Till some evening, sober, calm, 
Dropping dews and breathing balm, 
AMiile all around the woodland rings. 
And every bird thy requiem suigs; 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound. 
Shed thy dying honours round. 
And resign to parent earth 
The lovehest form she e'er gave birth. 



Silt firtrmpnri! (Eifiisian, 

ON BEING APPOINTED TO TUB EXCISE, 

Searching auld wives barrels, 

Och, hon ! the day ! 
That clarty barm should stain my laurels ; 

But — what' 11 ye say I 
These muvin' things ca'd wives and weans. 
Wad muve the very hearts o' stanes ! 

ffin (fylarink, 

with a present op a pair op drinking 

glasses. (212) 
Fair Empress of the Poet's soul. 

And Q,ueen of Poetesses ! 
Clarinda, take this little boon. 

This humble pair of glasses. 
And fill them high with generous juice. 

As generous as your mind; 
And pledge me in the generous toast— 

" The whole of human kind ! " 
" To those who love us! " — second fill; 

But not to those whom we love ; 
Lest us love those who love not us !^ 

A third — " To thee and me, love ! " 



Ctn (Clariniu, 

ON niS leaving EDINBURCn. 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul. 

The measur'd time is run ! 
Tlie wretch beneath the dreary pole 

So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light. 

The sun of all his joy. 
We part — but, by these precious drops 

That fill thy lovely eyes 1 
No other light shall guide my steps 

Till thy bright beams arise. 
She, the foir sun of all her sex. 

Has blest my glorious day; 
And shall a glimmering planet fix 

My worship to its ray ? 



170 



BURXS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



In this strang:e laud, this uncouth chme, 
A land unknown to prose or rhyme ; 
Where words ne'er crossed the muse's 
Iv'or limpet in poetic shackles ; [heckles 

A land that prose did never view it. 
Except wlien drunk he stacher't thro' it ; 
Here, ambush'd by the chimla cheek. 
Hid in an atmosphere of reek, 
I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk, 
I hear it^for in vain I leuk. 
The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, 
Euhusked by a fog infernal : 
Here for my wonted rhyming raptures, 
I sit and count my sins by chapters. 
For life and spunk like ither Christians, 
I'm dwindled down to mere existence, 
\Vi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies, 
\Vi' nae-kenn'd face but Jenny Geddes. 
Jenny, my Pegaseaii pride ! 
Dowie she saunters down Nithside, 

And aye a westlin heuk she throws. 

While tears hap o'er her auld browu nose ! 

Was it for this, wi' canny care, 

Thou bure the Bard through many a shire ? 

At howes or hillocks never stumbled. 

And late or early never grumbled ? 

Oh, had I power like inclination, 

I'd heeze thee up a constellation. 

To canter with the Sagitarre, 

Or loup the ecliptic like a bar ! 

Or turn the pole like any arrow; 

Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow, 

Down the zodiac urge the race. 

And cast dirt on his godship's face; 

For I could lay my bread and kail 

He'd ne'er cast salt upo' thy tail. 

W"i' a' this care and a' this grief, 

And sina', sma' prospect of relief^ 

And nought but peat-reek i' my head 

How can 1 write what ye can read? 

Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' June, 

Ye'U find me in a better tune ; 

But till we meet and weet our whistle, 

Tak this excuse for nae epistle. 

Robert Burns. 

in pkiars' carse hermitage, on the 
banks op nith. (214). 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deckt in silken stole. 
Grave these maxims on thy soul. 
Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night ; in darkness lost; 
Day, how rapid in its lliglit — 
Day, how few must see tiie night ; 



Hope not sunshine every hour. 

Fear not clouds will always lower. 

Happiness is but a name. 

Make content and ease thy aim. 

Ambition is a meteor gleam ; 

Fame a restless idle dream : 

Pleasures, insects on the wing 

Rou nd Peace, the tend'rest flower of Spring j 

Those that sip the dew alone. 

Make the butterflies thy own ; 

Those that would the bloom devour. 

Crush the locusts — save the flower. 

For the future be prepar'd. 

Guard wherever thou can'st guard ; 

But thy utmost duly done, 

Welcome what thou can'st not shun. 

Follies past, give thou to air. 

Make their consequence thy care : 

Keep the name of man in mind. 

And dishonour not thy kind. 

Reverence with lowly heart. 

Him whose wondrous work thou art; 

Keep his goodness still in view. 

Thy trust — and thy example, too. 

Stranger, go ; Heaven be thy guide 1 

Quoth, the Beadsman on Nithside 

Thou whom chance may hither lead. 
Be thou clad in russet weed. 
Be thou dcckt in sdken stole. 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most. 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour. 
Fear not clouds will always lower. 

As youth and love with sprightly dance, 

Beneath thy morning star advance, 

Pleasure with her siren air 

May delude the thoughtless pair ; 

Let Prudence bless Enjoyment's cup. 

Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high. 

Life's meridian flaming nigh. 

Dost thou spurn the humble vale? 

Life's proud summits would"st thou scalef 

Check thy climbing step elate. 

Evils lurk in felon wait : 

Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold. 

Soar around each clilfy hold, 

While cheerful peace, with linnet song. 

Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 

Beck'ning thee to long repose. 

As life itself becomes disease. 

Seek the chimney-neuk of ease ; 

There ruminate with sober thought. 

On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought J 

And teach the sportive younkers round, 

Saws of exiierience, sage and sound. 



ELEGY. 



'71 



Say, man's tme, genuine estimat«^ 
The grand criterion of his fate. 
Is not — art thou hii;h or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 
Wast thou cottager or king ? 
Peer or peasant ? — no such thing! 
Did many talents gild thy span ? 
Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? 
Tell them, and press it on their mind. 
As thou thyself must shortly find, 
The smile or frown of awful Heav'n, 
To virtue or to vice is giv'n. 
Say, to be just, and kind, and wise. 
There solid self enjoyment lies ; 
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways 
Lead to the wretched, vile and base. 
Thus resign 'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
Night, where dawn shall never break. 
Till future hfe, future no more. 
To light and joy the good restore. 
To light and joy unknown before. 
Stranger, go ! Heav'n be thy guide ! 
Quoth, the Beadsman of Nith-side. 



(BitrmpnrE tn CapiaiE f\iiiiirl> 

OP GLENKIDDLE, ON KETURNING A 
NEWSPAPER. (215) 

ElUsland, Monday Evening. 

Your news and review. Sir, I've read through 
and through, Sir, 
With little admiring or blaming ; 
The papers are barren of home-news or 
foreign. 
No murders or rapes worth the naming. 
Our friends, the reviewers, those chippers 
and hewers, 
Are judges of mortar and stone. Sir ; 
But of 7>ieet or unmeet, in a fabric complete, 

I'll boldly pronounce they are none. Sir. 
My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your 
goodness 
Bestowed on your servant, the Poet ; 
Would to God 1 had one like a beam of the 
sun. 
And then all the world. Sir, should know it ! 



i 3ilntljrr'i3 fantrnt. 

POR THE DEATH OF HER SON. (216) 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 
And pierc'd my darling's heart ! 

And with him all the joys are fled 
Life can to me impart. 



By cruel hands the sapling drops, 
In dust dishouour'd laid : 

So fell the pride of all my hopes. 
My age's future shade. 

The mother linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravish'd young; 
So I, for my lo-st darling's sake, 

Lament the live-day long. 
Dearh, oft I've fcar'd thy fatal blow. 

Now, fond I bare my breast. 
Oh, do thou kindly lay me low 

With liim I love, at rest ! 



Clrgil 

ON THE YEAR 1788. 

For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn, 
E'en let them die — for that they're born : 
But oh ! prodigious to reflec' ! 
A towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck ! 
Oh Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space 
M'hat dire events ha'e taken place ! 
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft usi 
In what a pickle thou hast left us ! 

The Spanish empire's tint a head, 
And my aidd teethless Bawtie's dead ; 
The tuizie's sair 'tween Pitt and Fox, 
And our giiidwife's wee birdie cocks ; 
The tane is game, a bluidie devil, 
But to the hen-birds unco civil : 
The tither's something dear o' treadin', 
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden. 
Ye ministers, come mount the pu'pit' 
And cry till ye be hoarse or roupit. 
For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel. 
And gied you a' baith gear and meal; 
E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck. 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck ! 

Ye bonnie lasses' dight your e'en. 
For some o' you ha'e tint a frien' ; 
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'cn, 
What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again. 
Observe the very nowte and sheep, 
How dowf and dowie now they creep ; 
Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry. 
For Embro' wells are grutten dry. 

Oh Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn. 
And no o\^Te auld, I hope, to learn ! 
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak' care. 
Thou now has got thy daddy's chair, 
Nae hand-cuff'd, muzzl'd, hap-shackl'd Kc- 
But like himsel', a full free agent, [geut. 
Be sure ye follow out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest man I 
As muckle better as you can. 



16^ 



172 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



iE!ikp55 tn t.liP Cnnilj-arliE. 

My curse upon thy venom'd stang', 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang ; 
Aud thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, 

Wi' gnawhig vengeance; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 

Like racking engines ! 
\^'hen fevers burn, or ague freezes. 
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ; 
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan ; 
But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases, 

Aye mocks our groan ! 
Adown my beard the slavers trickle ! 
I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle. 
As round the fire the giglets keckle. 

To see me loup ; 
While, raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 
0' a' the num'rous human dools, 
111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools. 
Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools. 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools — 

Thou bear'st the gree. 
Where'er that place be priests ca' hell. 
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell. 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell. 

In dreadfu' raw, 
Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell 

Amang them a' ! 
Oh thou grim mischief-making chiel. 
That gars the notes of discord squeel, 
TiU daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick ! — 
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmond's Toothache ! 



SACRED TO THE MEMORY OP MRS. 
OSWALD. (217) 

Dweller in yon dungeon dark. 
Hangman of creation, mark ! 
Who in widow-weeds appears, 
Ijaden with unhonoured years. 
Noosing with care a bursting purse. 
Baited with many a deadly curse ! 

STROPHE. 

View the wither'd beldam's face — 

Can thy keen inspection trace 

Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace ? 

Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 

Pity's flood there never rosj. 

See these hands, ne'er stretch'd to save. 

Hands that took — but never gave. 



Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 

Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest 

She goes, but not to realms of everlasting resti 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 
(Awhile forbear, ye tort'ring fiends ;) 
Seest thou whose step, imwilling, hither 

bends? 
No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies ; 
'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, 
Doom'd to share thy fiery fate. 
She, tardj', hell- ward plies, 

EPODE. 

And are they of no more avail. 

Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year? 

In other words, can Mammon fail. 

Omnipotent as he is here ? 

Oh, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, 

While down the wretched vital part is driv'n ! 

The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience 

clear. 
Expires in rags, imknown, and goes to Heav*!!. 



f ritrr In Sainrs Qlrnnant, 

OF GLENCONNER. (218) 

AuLD comrade dear, and brither sinner. 
How's a' the folk about Glenconner ? 
How do you this blae, eastlin wind. 
That's like to blaw a body blind ? 
For me, my faculties are frozen, 
And ilka member nearly dozen'd. 

I've sent you here, by Johnnie Sirason, 
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on :— 
Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling. 
And Eeid, to common sense appealing. 
Philosophers have fought and wrangled. 
And meikle Greek and Latin mangled. 
Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd. 
And in the depth of science mir'd. 
To common sense they now appeal. 
What wives and wabsters see and feel. 
But, hark ye, friend ! I charge you strictly, 
Peruse them, and return them quickly. 
For now I'm grown sae curpud douce 
I pray and ponder butt the house ; 
My shins, my lane, I therf .fiit roastin'. 
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, and Boston j 
Till bye and bye, if I baud on, 
I'll gnmt a blouset gospel groan : 
Already I begin to try it. 
To cast my e'en up like a pyet. 
When by the gun she tumbles o'er, 
Flutt'ring and gasping in her gore: 
Sae shortly you shall see me bright, 
A burning and a shinhig light. 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE. 



173 



My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, 

The ace and wale o' honest men : 

"When bending down wi' auld grey hairs. 

Beneath the load of years and cares, 

Jlay He who made him still support him. 

And views beyond the grave comfort him. 

His worthy fam'ly, far and near 

God bless them a' wi' grace and gear ! 

Jly auld schoolfellow, preacher Wilhe, 

The manly tar, my mason Billie, 

And Auchenbay, I wish him joy ; 

If he's a parent, lass or boy. 

May he be dad, and Meg the mither. 

Just five-and-forty years thegither ! 

And no forgetting wabster Charlie, 

I'm told he offers very fairly. 

And, Lord remember singing Sannock, 

Wi' hale breeks, sexpence, and a bannock ; 

And next my auld acquaintance Nancy, 

Since she is litted to her fancy ; 

And her kind stars hae airted till her 

A good chiel wi' a pickle siller. 

My kindest, best respects I sen' it. 

To cousin Kate and sister Janet ; 

TeU them, frae me, wi' chiels be cautious. 

For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashious. 

And lastly, Jamie, for yoursel. 

May guardian angels tak a spell. 

And steer you seven miles south o' helL 

But first, before you see heaven's glory. 

May ye get mony a merry story, 

Mony a laugh, and mony a drink. 

And aye enough o' ueedfu' chnk. 

Now fare ye weel, and joy be wi' you. 

For my sake this I beg it o' you. 

Assist poor Simson a' ye can, 

Ye'll fin' him just an honest man : 

Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter, 

Your's, saint or sinner, 

Rob the Ranter. 



i /ragnipiit. 

rSSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX. 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix and unite ; 
How virtue and vice blend their black and 

their white ; 
How genius, th' illustrious father of fiction, 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contra- 
diction — [bustle, 
I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should 
I care not, not I — let the critics go whistle ! 

But now for a patron, whose name and 

whose glory 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem 
mere lucky hits; 



With knowledge so vast, and with judgmeui 
so strong, [wTong ; 

No man with the half of 'em e'er went far 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright. 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite 

right ; — 
A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses, 
For using thy uame offers fifty excuses. 

Good Ij — d, what is man ? for as simple he 
looks ; [crooks. 

Do but try to develope his hooks and his 

With his depths and his shallows, his good 
and his evil, [devil. 

All in all he's a problem must puzzle the 

On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely 

labours, 
That, like th' Hebrew walking-switch, eats 

up its neighbours ; 
Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would 

you know him ? 
Pull the string, ruling passion the picture 

will show him. 
AVhat pity, in rearing so beauteous a system. 
One trifling, particular truth should have 

miss'd him ; 
For, spite of his fine theoretic positions, 
JMankind is a science defies definitions. 

Some sort all our qualities, each to its tribe. 
And think human nature they truly describe ; 
Have you found this, or t'other 1 there's 

more in the wind, [you'll find. 

As by one drunken fellow his comrades 
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan. 
In the make of that wonderful creature call'd 

man. 
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim. 
Nor even two different shades of the same. 
Though like as was ever twin brother to 

brother, [other. 

Possessing the one shall imply you've the 



<tn Iwing a tUniinilrli Sm 

LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST 
SHOT. (21 9j 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art. 
And blasted be thy nuirdei-aiming eye; 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart. 

Go hve, poor wanderer of the wood and field ! 

The bitter little that of life remains ; 

No more the thickening brakes and ver- 
dant plains 
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 



274 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted 

rest. 

No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 

The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy 

head, 

The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn ; 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mouru thy 
hapless fate. 



$Iji! IRirk'3 iHIarni. 

A SATIRE. (220) 

Orthodox, orthodox, 

Wha believe in John Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience ; 

There's a heretic blast 

Has been blawn in the wast. 
That what is no sense must be nonsense. 

Dr. JIac (221), Dr. Mac, 

You should stretch on a rack. 
To strike evil doers wi' terror ; 

To join faith and sense 

Upon ony pretence. 
Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr (222), town of Ayr, 

It was mad, I declare. 
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ; 

Provost John (223) is still deaf 

To the church's relief. 
And orator Bob (224) is its ruin. 

D'rymple mild (225), D'rymple mild, 

Tho' your heart's like a child. 
And your life like the new-driven snaw. 

Yet that winna save ye, 

Auld Satan must have ye. 
For preaching that three's ane and twa. 

Rumble John (226), Rumble John, 

Mount the steps wi' a groan. 
Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd; 

Then lug out your ladle. 

Deal brimstone like adle. 
And roar every note of the damn'd. 

Simper James (227), Simper James, 

Leave the fair Killie dames. 
There's a holier chase in your view ; 

I'll lay on your head. 

That the pack ye'U soon lead. 
For puppies like you, there's but few. 

Singet Sawney (228), Singet Sawney, 

Are ye huirding the penny. 
Unconscious what evil await ; 

Wi, a jump, yell, and howl. 

Alarm every soul. 
For the foul thief is just at your gate. 



Daddy Auld (229), Daddy Auld. 

There's a tod in the faulil, 
A tod meikle waur than the clerk (230) : 

Though ye do na skaith, 

Ye'll be in at the death. 
And if ye canna bite, ye may bark. 

Davie Bluster (231), Davie Bluster, 

If for a saint ye do muster. 
The corps is no nice of recruits ; 

Yet to worth let's be just. 

Royal blood ye might boast. 
If the ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jamy Goose (232), Jamy Goose, 

Ye ha'e made but toom roose. 
In hunting the wicked lieutenant ; 

But the Doctor's your mark. 

For the L — d's haly ark ; 
He has cooper'd and cawt a wrong pin int. 

Poet WiUie (233), Poet WiUie, 

Gie the Doctor a volley, 
Wi' your Liberty's Chain and your wit; 

O'er Pegasus' side 

Ye ne'er laid a stride. 
Ye but smelt, man, the place where he • • 

Andro Gouk (234), Andro Gouk, 

Ye may slander the book. 
And the book not the waur, let me tell ye; 

Ye are rich, and look big. 

But lay by hat and wig, 
And ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value. 

Barr Steenie (235), Barr Steenie, 

What mean ye, what mean ye ? 
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter. 

Ye may hae some pretence 

To bavins and sense, 
Wi' people wha ken ye know better. 

Irvine side (236), Irvine side, 

Wi' your turkey-cock pride. 
Of manhood but sma' is your share; 

Ye've the figure, 'tis true. 

Even your faes will allow. 
And your friends they dare grant you nae 
mair. 

Muirland Jock (237), Muirland Jock. 

When the Lord makes a rock 
To crush Common Sense for her sins. 

If ill manners were wit. 

There's no mortal so fit 
To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holy Will (238), Holy Will, 

There was wit i' your skull. 
When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor; 

The timmer is scant, 

AMien ye're ta'en for a saunt, 
Wha should swing in a rape for an hour, 



SKETCH— NEW YEAR'S DAT. 



175 



Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons. 

Seize your spir'tiial guns, 
Ammunitioti you never can need; 

Your hearts are the stutf, 

AA'ill be powther enough, 
And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 

Poet Burns, Poet Bums, 

Wi' your priest-skelping turns, 

"WTiy desert ye your auld native shire ? 
Your muse is a gipsie : 
E'en though she were tipsie. 

She could ca' us nae waiu: than we are. 



ffn Br. Slarklnrk, 

IW ANSWER TO A LETTER. 

ElUsland, 2lst Oct. 1789. 

Wow, but your letter made me vaixntie ! 
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ? 
I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie. 

Wad bring ye to : 
Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye. 

And then ye'll do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! (239) 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tauld mysel by word o' mouth. 

He'd tak my letter ; 
I lippen'd to the chield in trouth. 

And bade (240) nae better. 

But aiblins honest Master Heron 
Had at the time some dainty fair one 
To ware his theologic care on. 

And holy study ; 
And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on. 

E'en tried the body. 

But what d'ye think, my tnisty fier, 
I'm turned a gauger — Peace be here ! 
Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear, 

Ye'll now disdain me ! 
And then my fifty pounds a-year 

Will little gain me. 

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 
Wha, by Castalia's wimplin' streamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, 

Ye ken, ye ken, 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'ilang sous o' men. 

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies. 

They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies ; 

Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is — 

I need na vaunt, 
But I'll sued besoms — thraw saugh woodies. 

Before they want. 



Lord help me thro' this warld o' care ! 
I'm weary sick o't late and air ! 
Not but I hae a richer sliare 

Than mony ithers ; 
But why should ae man better fare. 

And a' men brithers ? 

Come, firm Resolve, take thou the van. 
Thou stalk o' carl hemp in man ! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair : 
Wha does the utmost that he can, 

V\'ill whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) 
To make a happy tire-side clime 

To weans and wife. 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky, 
I wat she is a dainty chuckie, 

As e'er tread clay ! 
And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, 

I'm yours for aye. 

Robert Burns. 



Mm, (241) 

Fair the face of orient day, 
Fair the tints of op'niiig rose; 

But fairer still my Delia dawn<. 
More lovely far her beauty shows. 

Sweet tlie lark's wild warbled lay, 
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear ; 

But, Delia, more delightful still, 
Steal thine accents on mine car. 

Tlie flower-enamoured busy bee, 
The rosy banquet loves to sip ; 

Sweet the streamlet's limpid !a;)se 
To the suu-brown'd Arab's lip. 

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 
Let me, no vagrant insect, rove; 

Oh, let me steal one liquid kiss. 

For, oh ! my soul is parched with lovet 



Ikrtrlj— JSEni-f'riir's IDai;. 

TO MRS DUNLOP. (242) 

This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain. 
To run the twelvemonth's length again : 
I see the old, bald-pated fellow. 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow. 
Adjust the unimpair'd machine. 
To wheel the equal, full routine. 



176 



BUKNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The absent lover, minor heir. 
In vain assail him with their prayer ; 
Deaf as ray friend, lie sees them press, 
Nor makes the hour one moment less. 
Will you (the Major's (243) with the hounds. 
The happy tenants share his rounds ; 
Coila's fare Rachel's (244) care to-day, 
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) 
From housewife cares a minute borrow — 
— That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow — 
And join with me a-moralizing : 
This day's propitious to be wise in. 
First, what did yesternight deliver? 
"Another year is gone for ever." 
And what is this day's strong suggestion ? 
" The passing moment's all we rest on 1 " 
Rest on — for what ? what do we here ? 
Or why regard the passing year ? 
Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore^ 
Add to our date one minute more ? 
A few days may — a few years must- 
Repose us in the silent dust. 
Then is it wise to damp our bliss ? 
Yes — all such reasonings are amiss ! 
The voice of Nature loudly cries. 
And many a message from the skies, 
That something in us never dies : 
That on this frail, uncertain state. 
Hang matters of eternal weight : 
That future life in worlds unknown 
Must take its hue from this alone ; 
Whether as heavenly glory bright. 
Or dark as misery's woeful night. 
Since, then, my honour'd, first of friends. 
On this poor being all depends. 
Let us th' important now employ. 
And live as those who never die. 
Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd. 
Witness that filial circle round, 
(A sight, life's sorrows to repulse, 
A sight, pale envy to convulse,) 
Others now claim your chief regard; 
Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



spoken at the theatre, dumfries, on 
new-year's-day evening. [1790] 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great 

city 
That queens it o'er our taste — the more's 

the pity : 
Tho', by-the-bye, abroad why will you 

roam? 
Good sense and taste are natives here at 

home : 
Eut not for panegyric I appear, 
I come to wish you all a good new yeai I 



Old Father Time deputes me here before ye. 
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 
The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade 

me say, 
" You're one year older this important day." 
If wiser, too — he hinted some suggestion. 
But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the 

question ; 
And with a would-be roguish leer and wink. 
He bade me on you press this one word — 

"think!" 

Ye sprightly youths quite flushed with hope 

and spirit, 
Wlio think to storm the world by dint of 

merit. 
To you the dotard has a deal to say, 
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way ; 
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless 

rattle, 
Tliat the first blow is ever half the battle ; 
That tho' some by the skirt may try to 

snatch him, 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him. 
That whether doing, suflfering, or forbearing, 
Y'ou may do miracles by perseverving. 

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair, 
Angehc forms, high Heaven's peculiar care ! 
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled 

brow. 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important 

Now ! 
To crown your happiness he asks your leaver 
And offers bUss to give and to receive. 

For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours. 
With grateful pride we own your many 

favours ; 
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, 
Beheve our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



^rnlngiip, 

FOR MR. Sutherland's benefit night, 

DUMFRIES. 

What needs this din about the town o' 
Lon'on, 

How this new play and that new sang is 
comin' ? 

"VMiy is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted ? 

Docs nonsense mend like whiskey, when im- 
ported ? 

Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame. 

Will try to gie us songs and plays at hame ? 

For comedy abroad he needna toil, 

A fool and knave are plants of every soil ; 

Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece 

To gather matter for a serious piece ; 




Wn.LlE BKEWD A PECK- U 'ALU' 



PEG NICHOLSON. 



177 



Tliere's themes enouyli in Caledonian story, 
AV^ould show the tragic muse in a' lier glory. 

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell 
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless 

fell? 
AV here are the muses fled that could produce 
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce , 
How here, even here, he first imsheath'd the 

sword, 
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord; 
And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, 
AVrench'd his dear country from the jaws of 

ruin ? 
Oh for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene 
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen 1 
Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms 
'Gainst headlong, rutliless, mad Rebellion's 

arms. 
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, 
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman : 
A woman — tho' the phrase may seem un- 
civil — 
As able and as cruel as the Devil ! 
One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page. 
But Douglasses were heroes every age : 
And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, 
A Douglas followed to the martial strife. 
Perhaps if bowls row right, and Right suc- 
ceeds. 
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads ! 

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land 
Would take the muses' servants by the 

hand; 
Not only hear, but patronise, befriend them. 
And where ye justly can commend, commend 

them; 
And aiblins when they winna stand the test. 
Wink hard and say the folks hae done their 

best! 
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be cau- 
tion 
Yell soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation. 
Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack, 
And warsle Time, and lay him on his back ! 
For us and for our stage should ony spier, 
"Wha's aught thae duels maks a' this bus- 
tle here?'' 
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow, 
We have the honour to belong to you ! 
We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye 

like. 
But like glide mithers, shore before you 

strike. 
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us. 
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness 
We've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks ; 
God help us ! we're but poor — ye'se get 
but thanks. 
N 



tl'ritira 



TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT TUE POET A 

NEWSPAPEK, AND OKFEKED TO CONTINUE IT 

FE.EE OP EXPENSE, 

Kind Sir, I've read your paper through. 

And, faith, to me 'twas really new ! 

How guessed ye. Sir, what maist I wanted ? 

This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted. 

To ken what French mischief \ias brewin'. 

Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin' ; 

That vile doup-skelper. Emperor Joseph, 

If Venus yet had got his nose off; 

Or how the collieshangie works 

Atween the Russians and the Turks ; 

Or if the Swede, before he halt, 

Woidd play anither Charles the Twalt : 

If Denmark, ony body spak o't ; 

Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't ; 

How cut-throat Prussian blades were 

hingin ; 
How libbet Italy was singin ' ; 
If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 
Were sayiu' or takin' aught amiss ; 
Or how our merry lads at hame. 
In Britain's court, kept up the game ; 
How royal George, the Lord leuk o'ei 

him ! 
Was managing St Stephen's quorum ; 
If sleekit Chatham Will was hvin'. 
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 
How daddie Burke the plea was cookin'. 
If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin' ; 
How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd. 

Or if bare yet were tax'd ; 

The news o' princes, dukes, and earls. 
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera girls; 
If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, 
Was threshin' still at hizzies' tails ; 
Or if he was grown oughtlins dousef. 
And na o' perfect kintra cooser. 
A' this and mair I never heard of. 
And but for you I might despair'd of. 
So gratefu', back your news I send you. 
And pray, a' guid things may attend you 1 
Ellisland, Monday Morning. 



^Jrg Hirlinlsnii. (245) 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. 

As ever trod on aim ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

And past the mouth o' Cairn. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. 
And rode thro' thick and thin ; 

But now she's floating down the Nith, 
And wautins e'en the skin. 



178 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. 

And aiice she bore a priest ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

For Solway fish a feast. 
Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. 

And the priest he rode her sair ; 
And much oppressed and bruis'd she was. 

As priest-rid cattle are — 



QJn M^ M. (246) 



Thou bed, in which I first began 

To be that various creature — Man I 

And when again the Fates decree, 

The place where I must cease to be ; — 

When sickness comes, to whom I fly. 

To soothe my pain, or close mine eye ; — 

When cares surround me, where I v>eep. 

Or lose them all in balmy sleep ; — 

When sore with labour, whom I court. 

And to thy downy breast resort — 

Where, too ecstatic joys I find. 

When deigns my Delia to be kind — 

And full of love, in all her charms, 

Thou giv'st the fair one to my arms. 

The centre thou — where grief and pain. 

Disease and rest, alternate reign. 

Oh, since within thy little space. 

So many various scenes take place ; 

Lessons as useful shalt thou teach, 

As sages dictate — churchmen preach ; 

And man, convinced by thee alone, 

This great important truth shall own : 

" That thin partitions do divide 

The bounds where rjood and ill reside; 

That nought is perfect here below; 

But BLISS still bordering upon woe." (247) 



/irst ^FpistlB ti 32r. (IJraljani 

OF FINTRY. 

When Nature her great masterpiecedesigned, 
And fram'd her last best work, the human 

mind. 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan. 
She formed of various parts the various man. 
Then first she calls the useful many forth ; 
Plain plodding industry, and sober worth : 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of 

earth, [birth: 

And merchandise' whole genus take their 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, 
And all mechanics' many-apron'd kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net ; 
The caput mortuum of gross desires [squires ; 
Makes a material for mere knights and 



The martial phosphorus is taught to flow. 
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough. 
Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave 

designs. 
Law, physic, politics, and deep divines : 
Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, 
Tlie flashing elements of female souls. 
The order'd system fair before her stood. 
Nature, well-pleas'd, pronounc'd it very good; 
But ere she gave creating labour o'er. 
Half-jest, she cried one curious labour more. 
Some spumy, fierj', ignis fatuus matter, 
Such as the slightest breath of air might 

scatter ; 
With arch alacrity and conscious glee 
fNature may have her whim as well as we. 
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to showit) 
She forms the thing, and christens it — a poet. 
Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, 
^A'hen blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow, 
A being form'd t'amuse his graver friends, 
Admir'd and prais'd — and there the homage 

ends: 
A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife. 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give. 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live ; 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan. 
Yet frequently unheeded in his own. 

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh'datfirst, then felt for her poorwork. 
Pitying the propless climber of mankind. 
She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
And, to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attach'd hira to the generous truly great, 
A title, and the only one I claim. 
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous 

Graham. 
Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train. 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main! 
Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, 
That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough; 
The little fate allows, they share as soon. 
Unlike sage proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung 

boon. 
The world were blest did bliss on them depend. 
Ah, that "the friendly e'er should want a 

friend!" 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son. 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun. 
Who feel by reason and who give by rule, 
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool!) 
\^T\o make poor will do wait upon I should— 
We own they're prudent, but who fsele 

they're good! 
Ye wise ones, hence! ye hurt the social eye! 
God's image rudely etr.h'd ou base alloy ! 
But, come, ye who the godlike pleasure know, 
Heaven's attribute distinguished — to bes.ow! 



THE TIVE CARLINES. 



179 



Whose arms of love would grasp the human 

race: [grace; 

Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's 
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes! 
Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 
Why shrinks my soulhalf blushing, half afraid. 
Backward, abash'd, to ask thy friendly aid? 
I know my need, I know thy giving liand, 
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command; 
But there are such who court the tuneful nine — 
Heavens! should the branded character be 

mine! [flows. 

Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely 
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 
Mark, how their lofty independent spirit 
Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit! 
Seek not the proofs in private life to find; 
Pity the best of words should be but wind! 
So to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song 

ascends. 
But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 
Ill all the clam'rous cry of starving want. 
They dim benevolence with shameless front; 
Oblige them, patronise their tinsel lays. 
They persecute you all your future days! 
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain! 
My horny fist assume the plough again ; 
The pie-bald jacket let me patch once more; 
On eighteen-pence a-wcek I've liv'd before. 
Tho', thanks to Heaven, I dare even that 

last shift ! 
I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift: 
That, plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for 

height. 
Where, man and nature fairer in her sight. 
My muse may imp her wing for some sub- 

limer flight. 



®}ir fim (U^arlinES. (248) 

There were five carlines in the south. 

They fell upon a scheme, 
To send a lad to Lon'on town. 

To bring them tidings harae. 

Nor only bring them tidings hame. 

But do their errands there. 
And aiblins gowd and honour baith 

!Might be that laddie's share. 

There was IMaggy by the banks o' Nith, 

A dame with pride eneugh. 
And Marjory o' the Monylochs, 

A carline auld and teugh. 

And blinkin' Bess o' Annandale, 
Tliat dwelt near Solwayside, 

And whisky Jean, that took her gill. 
In Galloway sae wide. 



17 



And black Joan, firae Crichton Peel, 

O' gipsy kith and kin — 
Five wighter carlines warna foun' 

The south countra vrithin. 

To send a lad to Lon'on town. 

They met upon a day. 
And mony a knight, and mony a laird. 

Their errand fain would gae. 

mony a knight and many a laird. 

This errand fain would gae ; 
But nae ane could their fancy please, 

O ne'er a ane but twae. 

The first he was a belted knight (249), 

Bred o' a border clan. 
And he wad gae to Lon'on town. 

Might nae man him withstan'. 

And he wad do their errands weel. 

And meikle he wad say. 
And ilka ane at Lon'on court 

Would bid to him guid day. 

Then next came in a sodger youth (250), 

And spak wi' modest grace. 
And he wad gae to Lon'on town. 

If sae their pleasure was. 

He wadna hecht them courtly gifts. 

Nor meikle speech pretend. 
But he wad hecht an honest heart. 

Wad ne'er desert a friend. 

Now, wham to choose, and wham refuse. 

At strife their carlines fell ! 
For some had gentle folks to please. 

And some would please themsel. 

Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg o' Nith, 

And she spak up wi' pride. 
And she wad send the sodger youth, 

WTiatever might betide. 

For the auld guidtnan o' Lon'on court (251; 

She didna care a pin ; 
But she wad send the sodger youth 

To greet his eldest son. (252) 

Then up sprang Bess o' Annandale, 

And a deadly aith she's ta'en, 
That she wad vote the border knight. 

Though she should vote her lane. 

For far-afF fowls hae feathers fair. 

And fools o' change are fain ; 
But I hae tried the border knight. 

And I'll try him yet again. 

Says black Joan frac Crichton Peel, 

A carline stoor and grim. 
The auld guidman, and the young g\iidman. 

For me may snik or swim ; 



ISO 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Tor fools will freat o' right or MTang, 
Wliile knaves laugh them to scorn ; 

But the sodger's friends hae blawn the 
best, 
So he shall bear the horn. 

Then whisky Jean spak owre her drink. 

Ye weel ken, kimmers a', 
Tlie auld guidman o' Lon'on court. 

His back's been at the wa'; 

And mony a friend that kiss'd his cup. 

Is now a fremit wight: 
But it's ne'er be said o' whisky Jean — ■ 

I'll send the border knight. 

Tlien slow raise Marjory o' the Loch, 

And wrinkled was her brow. 
Her ancient weed was russet grey. 

Her auld Scots bluid was true ; 

There's some great folks set light by me — 

I set as light by them; 
But I will send to Lon'on town 

\'\niam I like best at hame. 

Sae how this weighty plea may end, 

Nae mortal wight can tell : 
God grant the king and ilka man 

May look weel to himsel. 



inuli (IFfiisllE tn Blr- tojjatn, 

OF FINTRY. (253). 

FiNTRY, my stay in worldly strife. 
Friend o' ray muse, friend o' my life. 

Are ye as idle's I am ? 
Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg. 
O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg. 

And ye shall see me try him. 

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears, 
Who left the all-important cares 

Of princes and their darlings ; 
And bent on winning borough towns. 
Came shaking hands wi' wabster loans. 

And kissing barefit carliiis. 

Combustion through our boroughs rode 
Wliistling his roaring pack abroad. 

Of mad, unmuzzled lions ; 
As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl'd. 
And Westerha' and Hopeton hurl'd 

To every Whig defiance. 

But Queensberry, cautious, left the war. 
The unmanuer'd dust might soil his star. 

Besides, he hated bleeding ; 
But left behind him heroes bright. 
Heroes in Csesarean light 

Or Ciceronian pleading. 



O for a throat like huge Mons-meg (254), 
To muster o'er each ardent Wliig 

Beneath Drumlanrig's banners j 
Heroes and heroines commit 
All in the field of politics. 

To win immortal honours. 

M'Murdo and his lovely spouse, 

(Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows,) 

Led on the loves and graces ; 
She won each gaping burgess' heart 
While he, all conquering, play'd his part 

Among their wives and lasses. 

Craigdarroch led a light-arm' d corps; 
Tropes, metaphors, and figures pour. 

Like Hecla streaming thunder ; 
Glenriddel, skill'd in rusty coins. 
Blew up each Tory's dark designs. 

And bar'd the treason under. 

In either wing two champions fought. 
Redoubted Staig, who set at nought 

The wildest savage Tory. 
And Welsh, who ne'er yet flinch'd his grouui^ 
High wav'd his magnum boaum round 

With Cyclopean fury. 

Miller brought up the artillery ranks. 
The many pounders of the Banks, 

Resistless desolation ; 
While Maxwelton, that baron bold. 
Mid Lawsou's port entrench' d his hold. 

And threaten'd worse damnation. 

To these, what Tory hosts oppos'd ; 
With these, what Tory warriors clos'd. 

Surpasses my descriving : 
Squadrons extended long and large. 
With furious speed rush'd to the charge. 

like raging devils driving. 

What verse can sing, what prose narrate. 
The butcher deeds of bloody fate 

Amid this mighty tulzie ? 
Grim horror grinn'd ; pale terror roar'd 
As murther at his thrapple shor'd ; 

And hell mist in the brulzie ! 

As Highland crags, by thunder cleft. 
When lightnings fire the stormy lift. 

Hurl down wi' crashing rattle; 
As flames amang a hundred woods; 
As headlong foam a hundred floods ; 

Such is the rage of battle. 

Tlie stubborn Tories dare to die ; 
As soon the rooted oaks would fly. 

Before th' approaching fellers ; 
The Whigs come ou like ocean's roar 
Whju all his wintry billows pour 

Against the Buchan Bullers. (255) 



CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS. 



181 



Lo, from the shades of death's deep night. 
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight. 

And think on former daring ; 
The muffled murtherer of Charles (256), 
The Magna Charta flag unfurls. 

All deadly gules its bearing. 

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame ; 
Bold Scrimgeour (257) follows gallant Gra- 
hame— (258) 

Auld Covenanters shiver — 
(Forgive, forgive, much-wrong'd ]\Iontrose ! 
■WTiile death and hell engulf thy foes. 

Thou Uv'st on liigh for ever ! ) 

Still o'er the field the combat bums ; 
The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns; 

But fate the word has spoken — 
For woman's wit, or strength of man, 
Alas ! can do but what they can — 

The Tory ranks are broken ! 

Oh that my e'en were flowing burns ! 
My voice a lioness that mourns 

Her darling cub's undoing ! 
That I might greet, that I might cry, 
W'hile Tories fall, while Tories fly. 

And fttrious Whigs pursuing ! 

WhAt Whig but wails the good Sir James ; 
Dear to his country by the names 

Friend, Patron, Benefactor? 
Not Pulteny's wealth can Pulteny save ! 
And Hopeton falls, the generous brave ! 

And Stuart bold as Hector 1 

Thou, Pitt, shall rue this overthrow. 
And Thurlow growl a curse of woe. 

And Melville melt in wailing ! 
Now Fox and Sheridan rejoice ! 
And Burke shall sing, " Oh prince, arise ! 

Thy power is all-prevailing ! " 

For your poor friend, the Bard afar. 
He hears, and only hears the war, 

A cool spectator purely ; 
So when the storm the forest rends. 
The robin in the hedge descends 

And sober chirps securely. 



(0n iCaptain (^rnsr's ^c^rrrgrinalinns 

THROUGH SCOTLAND, COLLECTING THE 
ANTiaUlTIES OF THAT KINGDOM. (259) 

Hear, land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk (200) to Johnny Groats; 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede you tent it : 
A chield'g amang you taknig notes, 

And, faith, he'll prent it. 



If in your bounds ye chance to ligbt 

Upon a fine, fat fodgel wight, 

O' stature short, but genius bright. 

That's he, mark weel— 
And wow ! he has an unco slight 

O' cauk and keel. 

By some auld houlet-haunted biggin. 

Or kirk deserted by its riggin, 

It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in 

Some eldritch part, 
^A'i' deils, they sa\', Lord save's ! coUeaguin' 

At some black art. 

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumcr, 

Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamour, 

And you, deep-read in hell's black grammar, 

W^arlocks and witches ; 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer. 

Ye midnight bitches. 

It's tauld he was a sodger bred. 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 
But now he's quat the spurtle blade. 

And dog skin wallet. 
And ta'en the — Antiquarian trade, 

I think they call it. 

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets. 
Rusty aird caps and juiglin' jackets, 
W^ad baud the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont guid ; 
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets. 

Before the Flood. 

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
Auld Tubalcain's fire-shool and fender* 
That which distinguished the gender 

O' Balaam's ass ; 
A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 

AVeel shod wi' brass. 

Forbye, he'll shape 3'ou afl', fu' gleg. 
The cut of Adam's philabeg ; 
The knife that nicket Abel's craig. 

He'll prove you fully, 
It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or lang-kail gully. 

But wad ye see him in his glee. 
For meikle glee and fun has he. 
Then set him down, and twa or threo 

Guid fellows wi' him. 
And port. Oh port ! shine thou a wee. 

And then ye'll see him ; 

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose ! 
Thou art a dainty chiel, oh Grose ! — 
Whae'er 0' thee shall ill suppose. 

They sair miscd' thee; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose, 

W^ad aay, shan'e fa' theft 



1^:2 



HURNS'S POETICAL WOKKS. 



tltritffii in an ifnurlujit, 

ENCLOSING A LliTTER TO CAPTAIN 
GROSE. (261) 

Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose? 

Igo and ago, 
If he's amang his friends or foes? 

Iram, coram, dago. 
Is he south or is lie north ? 

Igo and ago, 
Or drowned in the river Forth ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 
Is he slain by Highlan' bodies ? 

Igo and ago, 
And eaten like a wether haggis ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 
Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? 

Igo and ago, 
Or haudin Sarah by the wame ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 
AVhere'er he be, the IjOiiI be near him ; 

Igo and ago. 
As for the deil, he daurna steer him, 

Irani, coram, dago. 
But please transmit the enclosed letter, 

Igo and ago, 
Which will oblige your humble debtor, 

Iram, coram, dago. 
So may ye hae auld stanes in store, 

Igo and ago, 
The very stanes that Adam bore, 

Iram, coram, dago. 
So may ye get in glad possession, 

Igo and ago. 
The coins o' Satan's coronation! 

Irum, coram, dago. 



Sltoss nf ffiprlirliiili 

TO THE PRESIDENT OP THE HIGHLAND 
SOCIETY. (2(J2) 

Long life, my Lord, and health be yours, 
Unscaith'd by hunger'd Iligliland boors ; 
Lord grant nae duddie desperate beggar, 
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger, 
May twin auld Scotland o' a life 
She likes — as lambkins like a knife. 

Faith, you and A s were right 

To keep the Highland hounds in sight; 
I doubt na ! they wad bid nae better 
Than let them ance out owre the water; 
Then up amang thrae lakes and seas 
They'll mak what rules and laws they please ; 
Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin, 
May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin' ; 
Some Washirigton again may head them. 
Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them, 
Till God knows what may be effected 
When by such heads and iiearts directed — 



Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire 
May to Patrician rights aspire ! 
Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville, 
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile. 
And whare will ye get Howes and Clintons 
To bring them to a right repentance, 
To cowe the rebel generation. 
And save the honour o' the nation ? 

They and be d d ! what right hae they 

To meat or sleep, or light o' day ? 

Far less to riches, pow'r or freedom. 

But what your lordship likes to gie them? 

But hear, my lord ! Glengarry, hear ! 

Your hand's owre light on them, I fear ; 

Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, 

I canna say but they do gaylies ; 

They lay aside a' tender mercies. 

And tirl the hallions to the birses ; 

Yet while they're only poind't and herriet, 

They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit; 

But smash them ! crash them a' to spails ! 

And rot the dyvors i' the jails ! 

The young dogs, swinge them to the labour; 

JjCt wark and hunger mak them sober ! 

The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont, 

Jjct them in Drury-lane be lesson'd I 

And if the wives and dirty brats 

E'en thigger at your doors and yetta 

FlafTan wi' duds and grey wi' beas*, 

Frightin' awa your deucks and geese. 

Get out a horsewhip or a jowler. 

The langest thong, the fiercest growler. 

And gar the tattered gypsies' pack 

Wi' a' their bastards on their back ! 

Go on, my Lord I I lang to meet you. 

And in my house at hame to greet you; 

Wi' common lords ye slianna mingle. 

The benmost neuk beside the ingle, 

At my right han' assigned your seat 

"JVeen Herod's hip and Polycrate— 

Or if you on your station tarrow. 

Between Almagro and Pizarro, 

A seat, I'm sure ye're weel deservin't ; 

And till ye come — Your humble servant, 

BEELZEBUa 

June \st, Anno Mundi, 5790. 



f aiiirnt nf ffiari] diurrn nf fmb, 

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 

Now Nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
And spreads her sheet o' daises white 

Out o'er the grassy lee : 
Now Phrebus cheers the crystal streams, 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But ncmglit can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 



TiiE WHISTLE. 



ISo 



Now (av'rocks wake the merry morn. 

Aloft oil dewy wing ; 
The merle, in Ins noontide bow'r 

Makes woodland echoes ring : 
The mavis wdd wi' mony a note, 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor thrall opprcst. 
Now blooms the lily by the bank, 

'1 he primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen. 

And milk-white is the slae ; 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

May rove their sweets amang ; 
Cut I, the Ciueen of a' Scotland, 

.Maun lie in prison Strang ! 
I was the Qncen o' bonnie France. 

Where happy I hae been ; 
Fu' lightly rase I in the morn, 

As blytlie lay down at e'en : 
And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
V'et here I he in foreign bauds. 

And never-ending care. 
Dnt as for thee, thou false woman! 

My sister and my fae. 
Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword 

That thro' thy soul shall gae ! 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe 

Frae woman's pitymg e'e. 
My sou ! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine ! 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign. 

That ne'er wad blink on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee : 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, 

Kemciuber him for me ! 
Oh soon, to me, may summer-suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autiunn winds 

^\?^\e o'er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave : 
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring 

Bloom on my peaceful grave ! 



CljC lXi\)hlk. (263). 

I SING of a whistle, a whistle of worth, 
I sing of a whistle, the pride of the North, 
Was brought to the court of oiir irood 
Scottisli king, [shall ring. 

And long with this whistle all Scotland 

1 



Old Loda, (264) still rueing the arm of 
Fmgal, [ball— 

The god of the bottle sends down from his 

" This whistle's your challenge — to Scotland 
get o'er, [me more !" 

And drink them to hell. Sir! or ne'er see 

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles 
tell, [fell ; 

What champions ventur'd, what champions 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still, 
And blew on the whistle his reijuiem shrill. 

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the 
Scaur, [war, 

Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in 

He drank his poor godship as deep as the 
sea. 

No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has 
gain'd, [remaineil ; 

■^^Hiich now in his house has for ages 

Till three noble chieftains, and all of his 
blood. 

The jovial contest again have renew'd. 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear 
as flaw ; [law ; 

Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and 

And trusty Gleiiriddel, so skill'd in old 
coins ; [wines. 

And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue sinootli 

as oil, 
Desiring Glenriddle to yield up the spoil ; 
Or else he would muster the heads of the 

clan, [the man. 

And once more, in claret, try which was 

"By the gods of the ancients !" Glenriddcl 

replies, 
" Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Roiie 

More (265), [times o'er." 

And bumper his horn with him twenty 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would 
pretend, [or his friend. 

But he ne'er turned his back on his foe — • 

Said, toss down the whistle, the prize of the 
field, [yield. 

And knee-deep in claret, he'd die, or he'd 

To the board of Glenriddcl our heroes 
repair, [care ; 

So iioied for drowning of sorrow and 

But for wine and for welcome not more 
known to fame [lovely dame. 

Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet 

A bard was selected to witness the fr.iy, 
.■Vnd tell future ages the feats of the day ; 



ISl 



BURNS'S POETICAL WOKKS. 



A ' ard who detested all sadness and spleen. 
And \\ ish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had 
been. 

The dinner being o'er the claret they ply, 
And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy; 
In the bands of old friendship and kindred 

so set, [they were wet. 

And the bands grew the tighter the more 
Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a 

core, [forlorn, 

And vow'd that to leave them he was quite 
Q'ill Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. 

Six bottles a-piece bad well wore out the 
night, [light. 

When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor 
did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and 

sage. [wage ; 

No longer the warfare, ungodly, would 
A high ruling Elder to wallow in wine ! 
He left the foul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end ; 
But who can with fate and quart-bumpers 

contend ? 
Though fate said — a hero shall perish in light ; 
So up rose bright Phoebus — and down fell 

the knight. 
Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in 

drink: — [sink; 

"Craigdarroch.thou'lt soar when creation shall 
But if thou would flourish nuriiortal in rhyme, 
Come — one bottle more — and have at the 

sublime! 

Thy line, that have struggled for freedom 

with Bruce, 
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce: 
So thine be the laurel and mine be the bay; 
The field thou hast won, by yon bright god 

of day!" 



€lrgii 



ON MISS BURNET OP MONBODDO. 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; 
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow. 
As that which laid til' accomphshed Burnet low. 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget? 
In richest ore the brightest jewel set I 
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown. 
As by his noblest work the Godhead best is 
known. 



In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves; 

Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery 
shore. 
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves. 

Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more I 

Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens; 

Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes 
stor'd ; 
Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens. 

To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 

Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their 
worth, 

Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail? 
And thou, sweet excellence! forsake our earth. 

And not a muse in honest grief bewail*^ 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride. 
And virtue's light, that beams beyond the 
spheres ; 

But, like the sun eclips'd at morning tide, 
Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee. 
That heart howsunk, a prey to grief andcare; 

So deck'd the woodbine sweet yon aged tree; 
So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare. 



faiiitnt 

FOK JAMES, EARL OP GLENCAIRN (2G0.) 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills. 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream: 
Beneath a craigy steep, a bard, 

Laden with years and nieikle pain. 
In loud lament bewail'd his lord, 

W^hom death had all untimely ta'en. 

He lean'd him to an ancient aik, 

Wliose trunk was mould' ring down with 
years ; 
His locks were bleached white with time, 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ; 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp. 

And as he tun'd his doleful sang, 
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 

To echo bore the notes alang. 

"Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing 

The reliques of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 

The honours of the aged year ! 
A few short months, and glad and gay. 

Again ye'U charm the ear and e'e ; 
But nought in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring agaiu to me. 

I am a bending aged tree, 

Tliat long has stood the wind and raiii : 



THIRD EPISTLE TO MB. GRAHAM. 



185 



But now has come a cniel blast, 
And my last hold of earth is gane: 

Kae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 
Nae simmer sun exalt iny bloom ; 

But I maun lie before the storm, 
And ithers plant them in my room. 

I've seen sae mony chansrefu' years. 

On earth I am a stranger grown; 
I wander in the wa^'s of men. 

Alike unknowing- and uuknownj 
Unheard, mipitied, unrelieved, 

I bear alane my lade o' care, 
For silent, low, on beds of dust, 

IJe a' that would my sorrows share. 

And last (the snra of a' my griefs!) 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flow'r amang our barons bold. 

His country's pride ! his country's stay — 
In weary being now I pine, 

For a' the life of life is dead. 
And hope has left my aged ken, 

On forward wing for ever fled. 

Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! 

The voice of woe and wild despair; 
Awake I resound thy latest lay — 

Then sleep in silence evermair 1 
And thou, my last, best, only friend. 

That fiUest an untimely tomb, 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought'st from fortune's mirkest 
gloom. 

In poverty's low barren vale 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round ; 
Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me like the morning sun. 

That melts the fogs in limpid air, 
Tlie friendless bard and rustic song 

Became alike thy fostering care. 

Oh! why has worth so short a date? 

While villains ripen grey with time; 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great. 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime I 
Why did I live to see that day? 

A day to me so full of woe! — ■ 
Oh ! had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low! 

The bridegroom may forget the bride, 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen: 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been; 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And a' that thou hast done for me ! " 



finrs 

SENT TO SIR JOHN -WHITEFOUD, BART., OB 

whitefoud, with the pukegoing poem. 
Tiiou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st. 
Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought 

earthly fear'st. 
To thee this votive offering I impart. 
The tearful tribute of a broken heart. 
The friend 'thou valued' St, I, the ]iatron,lov'd. 
His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd; 
We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone, 
And tread the dreary path to that dark 

world unknown. 



Kliitti (Epistle la 3Hr. feljam, 

OF FINTRY. 

L.\TE crippl'd of an arm, and now a lej. 
About to beg a pass for leave to beg : 
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's restj ; 
Will generous Graham list to his Poet's 

wail ? [tale), 

(It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her 
And hear him curse the light he first 

survey'd, [trade ? 

And doubly curse the luckless rhyming 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature ! I arraign ; 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 
The lion and the bull thy care have found, 
One shakes the forests, and one spurns the 

ground : 
Thou givs't the ass his hide, the snail his 

shell, [cell ; 

Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his 
Thy minion, kings, defend, control, devour. 
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power; 
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles insure ; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure ; 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their 

drug, [snug; 

The priest and hedgehog in their robes are 
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts. 
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and 

darts ; — 
But, oh ! thou bitter stepmother and hard. 
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child — the 

Bard! 
A thing unteachable in world's skill, 
And half an idiot, too, more helpless stih ; 
No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun; 
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; 
No horns, but those by luckless Hymea 

worn. 
And those, alas ! not Amalthca's horn : 
No nerves olfact'ry, Manimon's trusty cur, 
Clad in rich duluess' c(mifortable fur : — 



ISO 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Ill nuked feelinj,', and in acliinsj pride, 

He bears the unbroken blast from ev'ry 

side : 
Vampyre booksellers drain hira to the heart. 
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics ! — appall'd I venture on the name. 
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of 
fame : [(267) 

Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ! 
lie hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung. 
By blockhead's dariiia: into madness stutig ; 
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear. 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig 

must wear : [strife, 

Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal 
The hapless poet flounders on through life ; 
Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd. 
And fled each muse that glorious once 

inspired. 
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age. 
Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page. 
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless 

critic's rage ! 

So, by some hedge, the generous steed de- 
ceased. 
For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast : 
By toil and famine worn to skin and bone. 
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 

Oh dulness ! portion of the truly blest ! 
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 
Thy spns ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of fortune's polar frost or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup, 
AVith sober selfish ease they sip it up : 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well 

deserve. 
They only wonder "some folks" do not starve. 
The grave sage hern thus easj picks his frog. 
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope. 
And thro' disast'rous night they darkling 

grope. 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear. 
And just conclude that " fools are fortune's 

care." 
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks. 
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 
Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train. 
Not such the workings of their moon-struck 

brain ; 
In equanimity they never dwell. 
By turns in scaling heav'n, or vaulted hell. 

I dread thee fate, relentless and severe, 
AVith all a poet's, husband's father's fear ! 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
Glencairu, the truly noble, lies in dust ; 



(Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon ajipcars.. 
And left us darkling in a world of tears) : 
Oh ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish, pray 'r! — 
Fintry, my other stay, long bless and spare ! 
Thro' a long bfe his hopes and wishes crown ; 
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go 

down ; 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path. 
Give energy to life, and soothe his latest 
,, breath, [death I 

v/ith many a filial tear circling the bed 

/nitrtlj ^iiistls tn Ml Cmlym, 

OF FINTRY ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. (268) 

I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled muse may suit a bard that feigns; 
1 r end of my life I my ardent spirit burns. 
And all the tribute of my heart returns. 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new. 
The gift still dearer, as the giver, you. 
Thou orb of day 1 thou other paler light ! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; 
If aught that giver from my mind efface. 
If 1 that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
Then roll to me.alang your wandering spheres. 
Only to number out a villain's years ! 

AX OCCASIONAL ADDRESS .SPOKEN BY MISS 
FONTE.NELLE ON IIEU BENEFIT NIGHT. 

[NOV. 26, 1792.] 
While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty 

things. 
The fate of empires and the fall of kings ; 
While quacks of state must each produce 

his plan. 
And even children lisp the Rights of Man ; 
Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, . 
The Rights of Woman merit some attention. 
First, in the sexes' intermixed connection. 
One sacred Right of Woman is protection. 
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate. 
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate. 
Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form. 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending 

storm. 

Our second right — but needless here, is 

caution. 
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion ; 
Each man of sense has it so full before him, 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum. 
'I'heie was. indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time, when rough rude man had naughty 

ways ; 
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a 

riot. 
Nay even thus invade a lady'.s quiet. 



TO ME. MAXWELL. 



187 



Now, thank our stars ! these Gothic times 
are fled ; [bred — 

Now, well-bred men — and you are all well 

Most justly think (and we are much the 
gainers) [ners. (269) 

Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor man- 

For Right the third, our last, our best, our 

dearest, [nearest. 

That right to fluttering female hearts the 
Which even the Rights of Kings in low 

prostration [tion ! 

Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear adraira- 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move: 
There taste that life of life — immortal love. 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtatious, 

airs, 
'Gains't such au host what flinty savage 

dares ? — [charms. 

When a\vful Beauty joins with all her 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 

But truce with kings and truce with consti- 
tutions. 
With bloody armaments and revolutions. 
Let majesty your first attention summon. 
Ah! ca iral the majesty of woman. 



ia iuslnn. 

As I stood by yon roofless tower (270), 

Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air. 
Where th' owlet mourns in her ivy bower. 

And tells the midnight moon her care ; 
The winds were laid, the air was still. 

The stars they shot alang the sky; 
The fox was howling on the hill. 

To the distant-echoing glens reply. 
The stream, adown its hazelly path, 

AVas rushing by the ruin'd wa's. 
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 

Whose distant roaring swells and fa's. 
The cauld blue north was streaming forth 

Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din ; 
Athwart the lift they start and shift. 

Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 
By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes. 

And, by the moonbeam, shook to see 
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 

Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 
Had I a statue been o' stane. 

His darin' look had daunted lae; 
And on his bonnet grav'd was plain. 

The sacred motto — " Libertie !" 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow. 

Might rous'd the slumb'ring dead to hear; 

But oil ! it was a tale of woe, 
Ao ever met a Briton's ear. 



He sang wi' joy the former day. 
He weeping wail'd his latter times ; 

But what he said it was nae play — 
I winna ventur't in my rhymes. 



f ibprtu— i /ragmrnt. 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among. 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes ! 
Where is that soul of freedom fled ? 
Immingled with the mighty dead ! [lies ! 

Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death I 

Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep; 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep. 
Nor give the coward secret breath. 

Is this the power in freedom's war. 

That wont to bid the battle rage ? 
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate. 

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing 
Behold e'en grizzly death's majestic state 

When Freedom's sacred glance e'en death 
is wearing. 



ffn Ml 3IIaimrll, 

OF TERRAUGHTY, ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. 

Health to the Maxwell's vet'ran chief! 
Health, aye unsour'd by care or grief: 
Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sybil leaf 

This natal morn ; 
I see thy life is stuff o' prief. 

Scarce quite half worn. 
Tliis day thou metes'st three score eleven. 
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven 
(The second sight, ye ken, is given 

To ilka poet) 
On thee a tack o' seven times seven 

Will yet bestow it. 
If envious buckies view wi' sorrow 
Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow. 
May desolation's lang teeth'd harrow. 

Nine miles an hour, 
Rake them like Sodom and Gomorrah, 

In brimstane shoure — 
But for thy friends, and they are mouy, 
Baith honest men and lasses bonnie. 
May couthie fortune, kind and cannie. 

In social glee, 
Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny. 

Bless them and thee 1 
Fareweel, auld birkie I Lord be near ye. 
And then the deil he daurna steer ye : 
Your friends aye love, your faes aye fear ye^ 

For me, shame fa' me. 
If near'st my heart Minna wear ye 

Willie BuitNs they ca' me I 



18S 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



^n fastnral ^Eitrti. (271 ) 

Hail Poesie ! thou Nymph reserv'd ! 
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerved 
Frae common sense, or sunk urmerv'd 

'Mang heaps o' clavers ; 
And och ! owre aft thy joes hae starv'd. 

Mid a' thy favours ! 

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang. 
While loud, the trump's heroic clang. 
And sock or buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang 

But wi' miscarriage? 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives ; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives 

Horatiau fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barhauld, survives 

Ev'u Sappho's flame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? 
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches ; 
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches 

O' heathen tatters : 
I pass by hundred, nameless wretches. 

That ape their betters. 

In this braw age o' wit and lear, 
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair 
Blaw sweetly in its native air 

And rural grace ; 
And wi' the far fam'd Grecian share 

A rival place ? 

Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callan — 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! 
Thou need na jouk behuit the hallan, 

A chiel sae clever ; 
The teeth o' time may gnaw Tantallan, 

But thou's for ever ! 

Thou paints auld nature to the nines. 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines. 

Where Philomel, 
Wliile nightly breezes sweep the vines. 

Her griefs will tell ! 

Ill goweny glens thy burnie strays. 
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes ; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 

Wi' hawthorns grey. 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are nature's sel' ; 
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; 
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

0' witchin' love ; 
That charm that can the strongest quell. 

The sternest move. 



.fDniirl, 

WRITTEN ON THE 25tH JANUARY 1793, THl 

BIRTHDAY OP THE AUTHOR, ON HKAKINO A 

THllUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK. 

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless 
bough, 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, 
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, 

At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow. 

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear. 

Sits meek Content with light unanxious 

heart, [part. 

Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them 

Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or 

fear. 

I thank thee, Author of this opening day ! 
Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon 

orient skies ! 
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys. 
What wealth could never give nor take 

away ! 
Yet come, thou child of poverty and care. 
The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mita 
with thee I'll share. 



^i Cm nf f ilirrtii. (272) 

Heard ye o' the tree o' France, 

I watna what's the name o't ; 
Around it a' the patriots dance, 

Weel Europe kens the fame o't. 
It stands where ance the Bastile stood, 

A prison built by kings, man. 
When Superstition's hellish brood 

Kept France in leading strings, man. 

Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit. 

Its virtue's a' can tell, man ; 
It raises man aboon the brute. 

It maks hnn ken himself, man. 
If ance the peasant taste a bit 

He's greater than a lord, man. 
And wi' the beggar shares a mite 

O' a' he can afford, man. 

This fruit is worth a' Afric's wealth. 

To comfort us 'twas sent, man : 
To gie the sweetest blush o' health. 

And niak us a' content, man. 
It clears the een, it cheers the heart, 

Maks high and low guid friends, man; 
And he wha acts the traitor's part. 

It to perdition sends, man. 

My blessings aye attend the chiel, 
Wha pitied Gallia's ^^iaves, man, 

Ard staw'd a branch, spite o' the deil, 
frae yon't the wjsteru waves, man. 




DITNCAN GRAY. 



MONODY. 



189 



Fair Virtue water'd it wi' care. 
And now she sees wi' pride, man 

How weel it buds and blussoms there. 
Its branches spreading wide, man, 

Lut vicious folk aye hate to see 

The works o" Virtue thrive, man ; 
The co\irtly vermin's banned the tree. 

And fjrat to see it thrive, man. 
King Loui' thought to cut it down, 

When it was unco' sma', man ; 
For this the watchman cracked hia crown. 

Cut aff his head and a', man. 

A wicked crew syne, on a time. 

Did tak a solemn aith, man, 
It ne'er should flourish to its prime, 

I wat they pledged their faith, man ; 
Awa, they gaed wi' mock parade. 

Like beagles hunting game, man. 
But soon grew weary o' the trade, 

And wished they'd been at hame, man. 

For Freedom, standing by the tree. 

Her sons did loudly ca', man ; 
She sang a song o' liberty. 

Which pleased them ane and a', man. 
By her inspired, the new-born race 

Soon drew the avenging steel, man ; 
The hirelings ran — her foes gied chase. 

And banged the despot weel, man. 

Let Britain boast her hardy oak. 

Her poplar and her pine, man, 
Auld Britain ance could crack her joke. 

And o'er her neighbours shine, man. 
But seek the forest round and round. 

And soon 'twill be agreed, man. 
That sic a tree can not be found, 

'Twixt London and the Tweed, man. 

Without this tree, alack this life 

Is but a vale o' woe man ; 
A scene o' sorrow mixed wi' strife, 

Nae real joys we know, man. 
We labour soon, we labour late. 

To feed the titled knave, man ; 
And a' the comfort we're to get. 

Is that ayout the grave, man. 

Wi' plenty o' sic trees, I trow. 

The warld would live in peace, man ; 
The sword would help to mak a plough. 

The din o' war wad cease, man. 
Like brethren in a common cause. 

We'd on each other smile, man ; 
And equal rights and equal laws 

Wad gladden every isle, man. 

Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat 
Sic whalesome, dainty cheer, man ; 

I'd gie my shoon frae aff my feet. 
To taste sic fruit, I swear, man. 



Syne let us pray, aulJ England may 
Sure plant tliis far-famed tree, man ; 

And blytlie we'll sing, and hail the day 
That gave us liberty, man. 



^n §mu\ Dumnnrirr. 

A PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR. (273) 

You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier ; 
You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier. 
How does Dampiere do ? 
Ay and Bonrnonville too? 
Why did they not come along with you, 
Dumourier? 

I will fight France with yon, Dumourier ; 
I will light France with you, Dumourier 
I wdl tight France with you ; 
I will take my chance with you ; 
By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, 
Dumourier. 

Tlien let us fight about, Dumourier ; 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier; 

Then let us fight about, 

Tdl freedom's spark is out. 

Then we'll be damn'd,no doubt — Dumouner. 



Einrs 

SENT TO A GENTLEMAJJ WH0.M HE HAD OFFENDED. 

(274) 

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way. 
The fumes of wine infuriate send 

(Not moony madness more astray) — 
Who but deplores that hapless friend? 

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part. 

Ah, why should I such scenes outlive 1— 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 
' Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE, (275) 

How cold is that bosom which folly once 
fir'd. 
How pale is that cheek where the rouge 
lately glisten'd : [tired, 

How silent that tongue which the echoes oft 
How dull is that ear which to flattery so 
listen'd 1 
If sorrow and anguish their exit await. 
From friendship and dearest affection 
remov'd ; 
How doubly severer. Eliza, thy fate, pov'd. 
Thou diedst unwept, as thou lived'st un- 



I'JC 



BURNs'S POETTCAT, WORKS. 



Lovea, graces, and virtues, I call not on you ! 
So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a 
tear: 
But come, all ye offsprino^ of folly so true, 
And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold 
bier. 

We'll search through the garden for each 

silly flower, [weed; 

We'll roam through the forest for each iiile 

But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, 

For none e'er approached her but rued 

the rash deed. 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure 
the lay ; 
Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; 
There keen indignation shall dart on her 
prey. 
Which spurning contempt shall redeem 
from his ire. 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect. 
What once was a butterfly gay in life's 
beam : 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect. 
Want only of goodness denied her esteem. 



dFjit. 



itstiB frnm dtsnpiis tn Baria. 

(27G) 
From those drear solitudes and frowsy cells. 
Where infamy with sad repentance dwells ; 
Wliere turnkeys make the jealous portal fast. 
And deal from iron hands the spare repast. 
Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin. 
Blush at the curious stranger peeping in ; 
Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar. 
Resolve to drink, nay, half to whore no 

more : 
'\^^lere tiny thieves not destin'd yet to swing, 
Beat hemp for others, riper for the string : 
From these dire scenes my wretched liuea 

I date. 
To tell Maria her Esopus' fate. 

"Alas! I feel I am no actor here !" 

'Tis real hangmen, real scourges bear 

Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale 

Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale ; 

Will make thy hair, tho' erst from gipsy 

poU'd, 
By barber woven, and by barber sold. 
Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest 

care, 
Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. 
Tlie hero of the mimic scene, no more, 
I .siart iu Hamlet, iu Othello roar ; 



Or haughty chieftain, mid the din of arms. 
In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms , 
While sans culottes stoop up the mountain 

high. 
And steal from me Maria's eye. 
Blest Highland bonnet! once my proudest 

dress. 
Now prouder still, Maria's temples press, 
I see her wave thy towering plumes afar. 
And call each coxcomb to the wordy war ; 
I see her face the first of Ireland's sons (277), 
And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze ; 
The crafty colonel (278) leaves the tartaneil 

lines 
For other wars, where he a hero shines ; 
The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred. 
Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head, 
Comes mid a string of coxcombs to display. 
That veni, vidi, vici, is his way ; 
The shrinking bard adown an alley skulks. 
And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich 

hulks ; [state 

Though there, his heresies in church and 
Jlight well award him Muir and Palmer's fate: 
Still she undaunted reels and rattles on. 
And dares the pubhc like a noontide sun. 
(What scandal call'd Maria's jaunty stagger. 
The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger ; 
Whose spleen e'en worse than Burn's veuoro, 

when 
He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen. 
And pours his vengeance in the burning line, 
Who christen'd thus Maria's lyre divine. 
The idiot strum of vanity bemused. 
And even th' abuse of poesy abused : 
Who call'd her verse a parish 'Workhouse, 

made [stray 'd?) 

For motley, foundling fancies, stolen or 

A Workhouse ! ah, that sound awakes my 

woes. 
And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose ! 
In durance vile here must I wake and weep. 
And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep ! 
That straw where many a rogue has lain of 

yore. 
And verrain'd Gipsies litter'd heretofore. 
Why Lonsdale thus, thy wrath on vagrants 

pour; 
Must earth no rascal save thyself endure ? 
Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell. 
And make a vast monopoly of hell ? 
Thou know'st the virtues cannot hate thee 

worse ; 
The vices also, must they club their curse? 
Or must no tiny sin to others fall. 
Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all? 

Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares ; 
In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares. 



THE VOWELS. 



191 



As thou at all mankind the flaij unfurls, 
Who uu my fair one satire's vengeance hurls ? 
Who calls thee, pert, affected, vain coquette, 
A wit in folly, and a fool in wit ? 
Who says that fool alone is not thy due. 
And (]iiotes thy treacheries to prove it true? 
Our force united on thy foes we'll turn 
And dare the war with all of woman born : 
For who can write and speak as thou and I? 
My periods tliat decyphcrinjj defy. 
And thy still matchless tongue that conquers 
all reply. 



ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN RIDDEL OP 
GLENRIDDEL, APRIL, 1/94. {279J 

No more, ye warblers of the wood — no more ! 

Nor pour your descant, grating, on my 

soul : [dant stole. 

Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy ver- 

More welcome were to me grim Winter's 

wildest roar. 

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your 

dyes ? [friend ! 

Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my 

How can I to the tuneful strain attend? 

That strain flows round th' untimely tomb 

where Riddel lies I 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe ! 
And soothe the Virtues weeping on his bier: 
The ]Man of Worth, who has'uot left his 
peer. 

Is in his " narrow house " for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others 

greet. 
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 



finpramptii 

ON MRS riddel's BIRTH-DAY. (280) 

Old W^inter, with his frosty beard, 
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd — 
" What have I done of all the year. 
To bear this hated doom severe ? 
My cheerless suns no pleasure know ; 
Night's horrid car drags, dreary slow; 
My dismal months no joys are crowning, 
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. 

Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil. 

To counterbalance all this evil ; 

Give me, and I've no more to say. 

Give me Maria's natal day I 

That brilliant gift shall so enrich me. 

Spring, summer, autumn, cnunot match me." 



" 'Tis done !" says Jove ; so ends my story. 
And Winter once rejoic'd in glory. 



t^rrsrs tn Bliss fraljfini 

OF FINTRY. (281) 

Here, where the Scottish muse immortal 
lives, [join'd. 

In sacred strains and tuneful numbers 
Accept the gift; — tho' humble he who gives. 

Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast. 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among; 

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest. 
Or love ecstatic wake his sera^^h song. 

Or pity's notes in luxury of tears. 

As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears. 
And h°aveu-born piety her sanction seals. 



f IjE Ifatirds, 



thon" 



'TwAS where the birch and sounding 

are plied. 
The noisy domicile of pedant pride; 
Where ignorance her dark'ning vapour 

throws. 
And cruelty directs the thick' ning blows; 
Upon a time. Sir A-be-ce the great. 
In all his pedagogic powers elate. 
His awful chair of state resolves to mount. 
And call the trembhng vowels to account. 

First entcr'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight. 
But, ah ! deform'd, dishonest to the sight ! 
His twisted head look'd backward on his way. 
And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, ai.' 

Reluctant, E stalk'd in ; with piteous race 
The jostling tears ran down his honest face ' 
That name, that well-worn name, and all his 

own. 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ; 
The Pedant stifles keen the Roman sound 
Not all his niongreldiphthongscan compound; 
And next the title following close behind, 
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd 

The cobweb'd Gothic dome resounded, Y ? 
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply : 
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round. 
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the 
ground ! 

In rueful apprehension enter'd O, 

The wailing minstrel of despairing woP; 



192 



EUllN'S'S roKTICAL WOllKS. 



Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert, 
Might there have learnt new mysteries of 

his art ; 
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering TJ, 
His dearest friend and brotlier scarcely 

knew ! 
As trembling U stood staring all aghast. 
The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast, 
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, 
Baptjz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his 

siirht. 



i'^rrsrs tn ^nljii f\ankinE, 

Ane day, as Death, that gnisome carle. 
Was driving to the tither warl' 
A mixtie-maxtie, motley squad. 
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad ; 
Black gowns of each denomination. 
And thieves of every rank and station. 
From him that wears the star and garter. 
To him that wintles in a halter : 
Ashamed himsel' to see the wretches. 
He mutters, glowrin' at the bitches, 
"By G — , I'll not be seen behint them. 
Nor 'maiig the sp'ritual core present them, 
AVithout, at least, ane honest man. 
To grace this d — d infernal clan." 
By Adamhill a glance he threw, 
"L — God !" quoth he, "I have it now. 
There's just the man I want, i' faith !" 
And quickly etoppit Rankiue'y breath. 



i^v. Irnsiliilitti, 

TO MT DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FBIEND, 
MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. 

Sensibility how charming. 

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell : 

But distress with horrors arming. 
Thou hast also known too well ! 

Fairest flower, behold the lily. 

Blooming in the sunny ray : 
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley. 

See it prostrate on the clay. 

Hear the wood-lark charm the forest. 

Telling o'er his little joys : 
Hapless bird 1 a prey the surest, 

'To each pirate of the skies. 

D«arly bought, the hidden treasure. 

Finer feelings can bestow ; 
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure. 

Tlirill the deepest notes of woe. 



51t!llT55 

SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BKNEPIT 

NIGHT (282). 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour. 
And not less anxious, sure, this night, than 

ever, 
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 
'Twoiild vamp my bill, said I, if nothing 

better ; 
So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies. 
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes ; 
Said, nothing hke his works was ever 

printed; 
And last, my Prologue-business slily hinted. 
" Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of 

rhymes, [times : 

" I know your bent — these are no laughing 
Can you — but Miss, I own I have my 

fears — 
Dissolve in sighs — and sentimental tears. 
With laden breath, and solemn-rounded 

sentence, [Repentance ; 

Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell 
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand. 
Waving on high the desolating brand, 
CalUng the storms to bear him o'er a guilty 

land?" 

I could no more — askance the crcritnre 

eyeing, [crying? 

D'ye think, said I, this face was made tor 
I'll laugh, that's poz — nay more, the world 

shall know it ; 
And so, your servant ! gloomy Master Poet i 
Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief. 
That Misery's another word for Grief; 
I also think — so may I be a bride ! — - 
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd. 
Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh. 
Still under bleak ilijfortune's blasting eye ; 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — 
To make three guineas do the work of five : 
Laugh in Misfortime's face — the beldam 

witch ! — 
Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich. 
Thou other man of care, the wretch in love 
Who long with jiltish arts and au-s hast 

strove; 
WTio, as the boughs all temptingly project, 
Measur'st in desperate thought—a rope— 

thy neck — 
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep^ 
Peerest to meditate the healing leap : 
Would'st thou be cur'd.thou silly, moping elf! 
Laugh at her follies — laugh e'en at thyself: 
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, 
And love a kinder — that's your grand specific. 
To sum up all, be merry, I advise; 
And as we're merry, may we still be wise. 



THE ELECTION. 



193 



Sn (Cljlnris. fsss) 

'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young:, fair 
Nor thou the gift refuse, [frieuJ, 

Nor with un-wilhiig- ear attend 
The moralising muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms. 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 

To join the friendly few. 

Since thy gay morn of life o'ercast. 
Chill came the tempest's lower; 

(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 
Did nip a fairer flower.) 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more. 

Still much is left behind; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store — 

The comforts of the mind! 

Thine is the self-approving glow. 

On conscious honour's part; 
And, dearest gift of heaven below, 

Thine friendship's truest heart. 

The joys refin'd of sense and taste, 

■With every muse to rove: 
And doubly were the poet blest. 

These joys could he improve. 



Siikpss tn \\)t lljak nf Qtljnnisiin, 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, 
EOXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS. 

While virgm spring, by Eden's flood. 
Unfolds her tender mantle green. 

Or pranks the sod in frolic mood. 
Or tunes EoUan strains between: 

■\Vhile Summer with a matron grace 
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 

JTet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade: 

Wliile Autumn, benefactor kind. 
By Tweed erects his aged head. 

And sees, with self-approving mind. 
Each creature on his bounty fed: 

While maniac Winter rages o'er 

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows. 

Bousing the turbid torrent's roar. 
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows: 

So long, sweet Poet of the year! 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won ; 
While Scotia, with exulting tear, 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



Mhh m 3lh. irrnn's (Blrrtinns. 

[ballad first] (284.) 
Whom will you send to London town. 

To Parliament and a' that ? 
Or wha in a' the c:)uutry round 
The best deserves to fa' that? 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Tliro' Galloway and a' that ; 
Where is the laird or belted knight 
That best deserves to fa' that? 
Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett. 

And wha is't never saw that ? 
WTia ever wi' Kerroughtree met 
And has a doubt of a' that? 
For a' that, and a' that. 
Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
The independent patriot, 
The honest man, and a' that. 
Tho' wit and worth in either sex, 
St. Mary's Isle can shaw that ; 
Wi' dukes and lords let Selkirk mix, 
And weel does Selkirk fa' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 
Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
The independent commoner 
Shall be the man for a' that. 
But why should we to nobles jouk? 

And is't against the law that? 
For why, a lord may be a gouk, 
Wi' ribbon, star, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 
Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
A lord may be a lousy loun, 
Wi' ribbon, star, and a' that. 
A beardless boy comes o'er the hills, 

Wi' uncle's purse and a' that; 
But we'll hae ane frae 'mang oursels, 
A man we ken, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 
Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
For we're not to be bought and sold 
Like naigs, and nowt, and a' that. 
Then let us drink the Stewartry, 

Kerroughtree's laird, and a" that, 
O'lr representative to be, 

For weel he's worthy a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
A House of Commons such as he. 
They would be blest that saw tliat. 



[ballad second.] 

tE'ljE (Blrrtinn. 

Fy, let us a' to Kirkcudbright, 
For there will be bickeriu' there; 

For JIurray's light-horse are to muster. 
And oh, how the heroes will swear! 



194 



BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And there will be Murray commander, 
And Gordon the battle to win ; 

like brothers they'll stand by each other, 
Sae knit in alliance an' sin. 

And there will be black lippit Johnnie (285). 

The tongue o' the trump to them a'; 
An' he get iia hell for his haddin', 

Tlie deil gets na justice ava'; 
And there will be Kerapleton's birkie, 

A boy no sae black at the bane, 
But, as for his fine nabob fortune. 

We'll e'en let the subject alane. (286) 

And there will be "Wigton's new sheriff ; 

Dame Justice fu' brawlie has sped. 
She's gotten the heart of a Busby, 

But, Lord, what's become o' the head ? 
And there will be Cardoness (287), Esquire, 

Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes ; 
A wight that will weather damuation. 

For the devil the prey will despise. 

And there will be Douglasses doughty (288), 

New christ'ning towns far and near ; 
Abjuring their democrat doings. 

By kissing the — o' a peer ; 
And there will be Kenmure sae gen'rous, 

Wliose honour is proof to the storm. 
To save them from stark reprobation. 

He lent then his name to the firm. 

But we winna mention Redcastle, 

The body, e'en let him escape ! 
He'd venture the gallo\Ts for sUler, 

An' 'twere na the cost o' the rape. 
And where is our king's lord lieutenant, 

Sae fam'd for his gratefu' return ? 
The billie is gettin' his questions. 

To say in St. Stephen's the morn. 

And there will be lads o' the gospel, 

Muirhead wha's as guid as he's true : 
And there will be Buittle's apostle, 

Wlia's more o' the black than the blue ; 
And there will be folk from St. Mary's, 

A house o' great merit and note. 
The deil ane but honours them higldy — 

The deil ane will gie them his vote ! 

And there will be wealthy young Richard, 

Dame fortune should hing by the neck ; 
For prodigal, thriftless, bestowing. 

His merit had won him respect : 
And there will be rich brother nabobs, 

Tho' nabobs yet men of the first. 
And there will be Colheston's whiskers. 

And Q,uintin, o' lads not the warst. 

And there will be stamp-office Johnnie 
Tak tent how ye purchase a dram ; [(28i; 
And there will be gay Cassencarrie, 



.liu Liieic «iu uc; gay Casseucarrie, 
And there will be gleg Colonel Tarn 



And there will be trusty Kerroughtree, 
Whose honour was ever his law, 

If the virtues were packed in a parcel. 
His worth might be sample for a'. 

And can we forget the auld major, 

Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys, 
Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other. 

Him only 'tis justice to praise. 
And there will be maiden Kilkerran, 

And also Barskimming's guid knight. 
And there will be roarin' Birtwliistle, 

Wha, luckily, roars in the right. 

And there frae the Niddesdale borders. 

Will mingle the jMaxvvells in droves ; 
Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, and Walie 

That griens for the fishes and loaves; 
And there will be Logan Mac Douall, 

Sculdudd'ry and he will be there. 
And also the wild Scot of Galloway, 

Sodgerin' gunpowder Blair. 

Then hey the chaste interest o' Broughton, 

And hey for the blessings 'twill bring ! 
It may send Balraaghie to the Commons, 

In Sodom 'twould make him a kmg ; 
And hey for the sanctified Murray, 

Our land who wi' chapels has stor'd; 
He founder'd his horse among harlots. 

But gied the auld naig to the Lord. 



[ballad third.] 

in (firrilriit 3lm Inng^ 

Tune — Buy broom besoms, 

Wha will buy my troggin (290), 

Fine election ware ; 
Broken trade o' Broughton, 
A' in high repair. 

Buy braw troggin, 

Frae the banks o' Dee ; 
Who wants troggin 
Let him come to me. 

There's a noble Earl's 

Fame and high renown (291), 
For an auld sang — 

It's thought the gudes were strown 
Buy braw troggin, &c. 
Here's the worth o' Broughton (292), 

In a needle's ee : 
Here's a reputation 

Tint by Balmaghie. (293) 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's an honest conscience 

Might a prince adorn ; 
Frae the downs o' Tinwald^ 

So was never worn. (294) 

Buy braw troggin, &a 



1 



ON TOE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CHILD. 



19:5 



Here its stuff and lining, 

Cardoncss's head ; 
Fiue for a sodger 

A' the wale o' lead. 

Buy braw troggiii, &C. 

Here's a little wadset 

Buittle's scrap o' truth, 
Pawn'd in a gin shop 

Quenching holy drouth. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's armorial bearings, 

Frae the manse o' Urr ; 
The crest, an auld crab-apple (295) 

Rotten at the core. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here is Satan's picture, 

like a bizzard gled, 
Pouncing poor Redcastle 

Sprawhu' as a taed. 

Buy braw troggin, &a 

Here's the worth and wisdom 

CoUieston can boast ; 
By a thievish midge 

They had been nearly lost. 

Buy braw troggin, &C. 

Here is Murray's fragments 

0' the ten commands ; 
Gifted by black Jock 

To get them aff his hands. 

Buy braw troggin, &C. 

Saw ye e'er sic troggin ? 

If to buy ye're slack, 
Hornie's turnin' chapman — 
He'll buy a' the pack. 

Buy braw troggin 

Frae the banks o' Dee ; 
Wha wants troggin 
Let him come to me. 



ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTEP. 
(296) DUMFRIES, 1796. 

My honoured colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the poet's weal : 
Ah ! now sma' heart hae I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill, 

Aud potion glasses. 

Oh what a canty warld were it, 

Would pain and care and sickness spare it ; 

Vud fortune favour worth and merit. 

As they deserve ! 
(Aud aye a rowth roast beef and claret ; 

Syne wha wad starve ?) 



Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, 
And in paste gems and frippery deck her ; 
Oh! flickering, feeble, aud uusicker 

I've found her still 
Aye wavering like the willow-wicker, 

'Tweeu good and ill. 
Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satau, 
Watches like baudrons by a rattan. 
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on 

Wi' felon ire ; 
Syne, wliip ! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on- 

He's aff like fire. 

Auld Nick ! auld Nick 1 it is na fair. 
First showing us the tempting ware. 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare. 

To put us daft ; 
Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare 

O' hell's damu'd waft. 
Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by. 
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh. 
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy. 

And hellish pleasure ; 
Already in thy fancy's eye. 

Thy sicker treasure ! 

Soon heel's-o'er-gowdie ! in he gangs, 
And like a sheep-head on a tangs. 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murd'ring wrestle. 
As, dangling in the wind, he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel. 
But lest you tliink I am uncivil. 
To plague you with this draunting drivel. 
Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

I quat my pen : 
The Lord preserve us a' frae the devil 1 

Amen! Amen! 



Sii5iriptinii 

FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE. (297) 

Thou of an independent mind. 

With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd ; 

Prepar'd Powers proudest frown to brave. 

Who wilt not be, nor have a slave; 

Virtue alone who dost revere. 

Thy own reproach alone dost fear. 

Approach this sluine, and wor.'hip here. 



(3)ii lljE Dratji nf a /annnritB 

(298) 
Oh sweet be thy sleep in the land of the 

My dear little "angel, for ever ; [grave. 
For ever — oh no ! let not man be a slave. 

His hopes from existence to sever. 



11 



196 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORES. 



Though cold be the clay where thou pillow'st 

thy head, 
, In the dark silent mansions of sorrow. 
The spring shall return to thy low narrow 
bed. 
Like the beam of the day-star to-morrow. 

The flower stem shall bloom like thy sweet 
seraph form, 
Ere the spoiler had nipt thee in blossom, 
Wlien thou shrunk'st frae the scowl of the 
loud winter storm. 
And nestled thee close to that bosom 

Oh still I behold thee, all lovely in death. 
Reclined on the lap of thy mother; 

When the tear trickled bright, when the 
short stifled breath. 
Told how dear ye were aye to each other. 

My child, thou art gone to the home of 
thy rest, 
Wliere suffering no longer can harm ye, 
Where the songs of the good, where the 
hymns of the blest. 
Through an endless existence shall charm 
thee. 

While he, thy fond parent, must sighing 
sojourn. 
Through the dire desert regions of sorrow. 
O'er the hope and misfortune of beuig to 
mourn. 
And sigh for this life's latest morrow. 



gn air. aiiirljrll, 



COLLECTOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796. 

Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, 
VATia, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; 
Alack ! alack ! the meikle diel 

Wi' a' his witches 
Are at it, skelpin' jig and reel, 

In my poor pouches ! 

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it. 
That one pound one, I sairly want it; 
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it. 

It would be kind ; 
And while my heart wi' lif-blood daunted, 

I'd bear't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin 

To thee -and thuie ; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hale desisn. 



POSTCRIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've been Lcket, 
And by fell death was nearly nicket ; 
Grim loan I he got me by the fecket. 

And sair me sheuk ; 
But by guid luck I lap a wicket. 

And turn'd a neuk. 

But by that health, I've got a shore o't. 
And by that life, I'm promised mair o't 
My hale and weel, I'll tak a care o't, 

A tentier way; 
Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't. 

For ance and aye 1 



QfflE Sluinrli Blaiii's tmtnl 

Oh, meikle do I rue, fause love, 

Oh sairly do I rue. 
That e'er I heard your flattering tongue^ 

That e'er your face I knew. 

Oh, I hae tent my rosy cheeks. 
Likewise my waist sae sma' ; 

And I hae lost my lightsome heart. 
That httle wist a fa'. 

Now I maim thole the scornfu' sneer 

O' mony a saucy quean ; 
When, gin the truth were a' but kent. 

Her Ufe's been warse than mine. 

Whene'er my father thinks on me. 

He stares into the wa' ; 
My mither, she has taen the bed 

Wi' thinking on my fa'. 

Whene'er I hear ray father's foot. 
My heart wad burst wi' pain ; 

Whene'er I meet ray mither's ee. 
My tears rin down like rain, 

Alas 1 sae sweet a tree as love 

Sic bitter fruit should bear ! 
Alas ! that e'er a bonnie face 

Should draw a sauty tear I 



^lli; Draii nf tjiB /arnltij. 

A NEW BALLAD. (299) 

Dire was the hate at old Harlaw, 

That Scot to Scot did carry ; 
And dire the discord Langside saw. 

For beauteous hapless ilary : 
But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot. 

Or were more in fury seen. Sir, [job— 
Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famoua 

Who should be Faculty's Dean, Sir. 



ON MR. M'MUEDO. 



107 



This Hal for genus, wit, and lore, 

Among the first was number'd ; 
But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store, 

Commandment ten remeniber'd. 
Yet simple Bob the victory got. 

And won his heart's desire ; 
Which shows that Heaven can boil the pot, 

Though the devil's in the fire. 

Squire Hal besides had in this case 

Pretensions rather brassy. 
For talents to deserve a place 

Are qualifications saucy ; 
So their worships of the " Faculty" 

Quite sick of merit's rudeness, 
Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye see. 

To their gratis grace and goodness. 

As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight 

Of a son of Circumcision, 
So may be, on this Pisgah lieight, 

Bob's purblind, mental vision : 
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet 

'Till for eloquence you hail him, 
And swear he has the Angel met 

That met the Ass of Balaam. 



ifrrsrs 

ON THE DESTKXJCTION OP THE WOODS NE.\R 
DUUMLANEIG. (300) 

As on the banks o' wandering Nith, 

Ane smiling simmer-morn I strayed. 
And traced its bonnie howes and haughs. 

Where linties sang and lambkins play'd, 
^ sat me down upon a craig. 

And drank my fill o' fancy's dream. 
When, from the eddying deep below. 

Uprose the genius of the stream. 

Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow. 

And troubled, like his wintry wave. 
And deep, as sighs the boding wind 

Amaug his eaves, the sigh he gave — 
" And came ye here, my son," he cried, 

" To wander in my birken shade ? 
To muse some favourite Scottish theme. 

Or sing some favourite Scottish maid. 

"There was a time, it's nae lang syne. 

Ye might hae seen me in my pride. 
When a' my banks sae bravely sav 

Their woody pictures in my tide ; 
When hanging beech and spreading elm 

Shaded my stream sae clear and cool ; 
And stately oaks their twisted arms 

Threw broad and dark across the pool ! 

** When glinting, through the trees, appeared 
The wee white cot aboon the mill. 

And peacefu' rose its ingle reek. 
That slowly curled up the hilL 



But now the cot is bare andcauld. 

Its branchy shelter's lost and gane, 
And scarce a stinted birk is left 

To shiver in the blast is lane." 
" Alas! " said I, " what ruefu' chance 

Has twin'd ye o' your stately trees ? 
Has laid your rocky bosom bare? 

Has stripp'd the deeding o' your braes? 
Was it the bitter eastern blast. 

That scatters blight in early spring? 
Or was't the wil'fire scorched their boughs. 

Or canker-worm wi' secret sting ? " 
"Nae easthn blast," the sprite replied: 

" It blew na here sae fierce and fell, 
And on my dry and whalesome banks 

Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell : 
Man ! cruel man ! " the genius sigh'd — 

As through the cliffs he sank him down— 
"The worm that gnav/'d my bonnie trees. 

That reptile wears a ducal crown." 



(Dn tljc iDiikj nf dl^iirriislnini. (30i) 

How shall I sing Druralanrig's Grace — 
Discarded remnant of a race 

Once great in martial story' 
His forbears' virtues all contrasted— 
The very name of Douglas blasted— 

His that inverted glory. 

Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore; 
But he has superadded more. 

And sunk them in contempt; 
Follies and crimes have stain'd the name. 
But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim. 

From ought that's good exempt. 



[with a prese.nt op books.] (302.) 
Oh, could I give thee India's wealth 

As I this trifle send. 
Because thy joy in both would be 

To share them with a friend. 
But golden sands did never grace 

The Heliconian stream ; 
Then take what gold could never buy— 

An honest Bard's esteem. 



dDii air. M'Mm^u. 

INSCRIBED ON A PANE OF GLASS IN 
HIS HOUSE. 

Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day! 
No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray; 
No WTinkle furrowed by the hand of care. 
Nor ever sorrow add one silver hair! 
Oh, may no son the father's honour stain. 
Nor ever daughter give the motlier paiu! 



les 



BURNS'S TOETICAL WORKS. 



Smprnni;iiu nn IDIIHe .Ifpraart. (303) 

You're welcome, Willie Stewart, 
You're welcome, Willie Stewart, 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May, 
That's half sae welcome's thou art. 
Come, bumpers high, express your joy. 

The bowl we maun renew it; 
The tappit-hen gae bring her ben. 

To welcome Willie Stewart. 
May foes be Strang, and friends be slack. 

Ilk action may he rue it; 
May woman on him turn her back. 

That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart. 



Cn Mis5 !Sb531j ICrraars. 

[with a present of books.] 
Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, 
And with them take the Poet's prayer — 
That Fate may in her fairest page. 
With ev'ry kindliest, best presage 
Of future bliss enrol thy name : 
With native worth, and spotless fame. 
And wakeful caution still aware 
Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare; 
All blameless joys on earth we find. 
And all the treasures of the mind — 
These be thy guardian and reward ; 
So prays thy faithful friend the Bard. 



f ibliif, % Ijap srrn ilji Dai]. (304) 

Tune — Invercauld's Reel. 
On Tibbie, I hae seen the day 

Ye wad na been sae shy ; 
For lack o' gear ye slighted me. 
But, trowth, 1 care na by. 
Yestreen 1 met you on the moor. 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure; 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor. 

But fient a hair care I. 
I doubt na, lass, but ye may think. 
Because ye hae the name o'clink. 
That ye can please me at a wink. 

Whene'er ye like to try. 
But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean, 

That looks sae proud and high. 
Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart. 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Ye'U cast your head another airt. 

And answer him fu' dry. 
But if he hae the name o' gear, 
^'e'll fasten to him like a brier, 
Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear. 

Be better than the kye. 



But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice. 
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice; 
The deil a ane wad spier your price. 
Were ye as poor as I. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I would na gie her in her sark, 
For thee, wi' a' thy thousan' mark; 
Ye need na look sae high. 



Jllontgnmrrii's ^<3rggi|. (305) 

Tune — Galla-fVater. 
Altho' my bed were in yon muir 

Amang the heather, in my plaidie. 
Yet happy, happy would I be, 

Had I my dear Montgomery's Peggy. 

When o'er the hill beat surly storms. 
And winter nights were dark and rainy; 

I'd seek some dell, and in my arms 
I'd shelter dear Montgomery's Peggy. 

Were I a baron proud and high. 

And horse and servants waiting ready, 

Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me. 

The sharin't with Montgomery's Peggy. 



Sannij '\hm ^J'snn. (306) 

Tune — Braes o' Balquhidder. 

CHORUS, 

I'll kiss thee yet, yet. 

And I'll kiss thee o'er again ; 

And rU kiss thee, yet, yet. 
My bonnie Peggy Alison ; 

Dk care and fear, when thou art near, 

I ever mair defy iliem, O ; 
Young kings upon their hansel throne 

Are no sae blest as I am, O ! 

Wlien in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, 
I clasp my countless treasure, O, 

I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share. 
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O ! 

And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 
I swear I'm thine for ever, O ! 

And on thy lips I seal my vow. 
And break it shall I never, O ! 



Mnfs In 11)1] SJraltlj, m\ ffiunnij fass, 

Tune — Larjr/an Burn. 
Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass, 

Guid night, and joy be wi' tbee; 
I'll come nae mair to thy bower-door. 

To tell thee that I loe thee : 



JOHN BARLEYCORN. 



19!) 



Oh (liiiiia think, my pretty pink. 

But I can live without thee : 
I vow and swear I dinna care 

How lang ye look about ye. 

Thou'rt aye sfie free informing me 

'niou hast nae mind to marry; 
I'll be as free lul'urming thee 

Nae time hae I to tarry. 
I ken thy friends try ilka means, 

Frae wedlock to delay thee; 
Depending on Bome higher chance— 

But fortune may betray thee. 

I ken they scorn my low estate. 

But that does never grieve me ; 
But I'm as free as any he, 

Sma' siller will relieve me. 
I count my health my greatest wealth, 

Sae long as I'll enjoy it : 
I'll fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want. 

As lang's I get employment. 

But far off fowls hae feathers fair. 

And aye until ye try them : 
Tho' they seem fair, still have a care. 

They may prove worse than I am. 
But at twilit night, when the moon shines 

bright, 
iVly dear, I'll come and see thee ; 
For the man that loes his mistress weel, 

Na£i travel makes him weary. 



Tune — Last li:iie I came o'er the Muir. 

You.N'G Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, 

Her blush is like the morning, 
The rosy dawn, the springing grass. 

With early gems adornmg : 
Her eyes outslime the radiant beams 

That gild the passing shower, 
And glitter o'er tlie crystal streams. 

And cheer each fresh'ning flower. 

Iler lips, more than the cherries bright, 

A richer dye has graced them ; 
They charm th' admiring gazer's sight. 

And sweetly tempt to taste them : 
Her smile is, as the evening mild, 

When featlier'd tribes are courting, 
And Uttle lambkins wanton wdd. 

In playfvd b.\nds disporting. 

Were fortune lovely Peggy's foe, 
iSuch sweetness wouUl relent her 

As blooming spring unbends the brow 
Of surly, savage winter. 



Detraction's eye no aim can gain. 
Her winning powers to lessen ; 

And fretful envy grins in vain 
The poison'd tooth to fasten. 

Ye pow'rs of honour, love and truth. 

From ev'ry ill defend her ; 
Inspire the highly-favour'd youth. 

The destinies intend her : 
Still fan the sweet connubial flame 

Responsive in each bosom. 
And bless the dear parental name 

With many a filial blossom. 



ffljjn Sarlriirarn. 

A BALLAD. (308) 

There were three kings into the east. 
Three kings both great and high ; 

And they hae sworn a solemn oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 

They took a plough and plough'd him down, 

Put clods upon his head ; 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was dead. 

But the cheerful spring came kindly on 

And show'rs began lo fall ; 
John Barleycorn got up again. 

And sore surpris'd them all. 

The sultry suns of summer came. 
And he grew thick and strong ; 

His head weel arin'd wi' pointed spears, 
That no one should him wrong. 

The sober autumn enter'd mild, 

AVheu he grew wan and pale ; 
His bending joints and drooping head 

Show'd he began to fad. 

His colour sicken'd more and more. 

He faded into age ; 
And then his enemies began 

To show their deadly rage. 

Tliey've taen a weapon, long and sharp, 

And cut him by the knee ! 
They tied him fast upon a cart. 

Like a rogue for forgerie. 

They laid him down upon his back. 

And cudgell'd him full sore ; 
They hnug him up before the storm. 

And turn'd him o'er and o'er. 

They filled up a darksome pit 

With water to the brim ; 
They heaved in Juliii P.arleycom, 

There let him sink or swim. 



200 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



They laid him out upon the floor 

To work him farther woe; 
And stil], as sitfns of life appear'd. 

They toss'd him to and fro. 

They wasted o'er a scorching flame 

The marrow of his bones ; 
But a miller us'd him worst of all, 

For he crush'd him 'tween two stones. 

And they hae taen his very heart's blood. 
And drunk it round and round ; 

And still the more and more they drank. 
Their joy did more abound. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold. 

Of noble enterprise ; 
For if you do but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise. 

'Twill make a man forget his woe ; 

'Twill heighten all his joy : 
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 

Tho' the tear were in her eye. 

Then let us toast John Barleycorn. 

Each man a glass in hand ; 
And may his great posterity 

Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! 



^\}t fvigs n* Sarlrij. (soo) 

Tune — Corn Rigs are bonuie. 

It was upon a Lammas night. 

When corn rigs are boiiiiie, 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I heft awa to Annie : 
The time flew by wi' tentless heed. 

Till 'tween the late and early, 
W^i' sma' persuasion she agreed 

To see me thro' the barley. 

The sky was blue, the wind was still. 

The moon was shining clearly ; 
I set her down wi' right good will 

Amang the rigs o' barley ; 
I ken't her heart was a' my ain ; 

I lov'd her most sincerely ; 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again, 

Araang the rigs o' barley. 

I lock'd her in my fond embrace ; 

Her heart was beating rarely : 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' barley ! 
But by the moon and stars so bright. 

That shone that hour so clearly ! 
She aye shall bles.t that happy night, 

Amaiijj vhe rrgs o' barley. 



I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear ; 

1 hae been merry drinkin' ; 
I hae been joyfu' gath'rin' gear; 

I hae been happy thinkin' ; 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Tho' three times doubl'd fairly. 
That happy night was worth them a', 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

CHORUS. 

Com rigs, and barley rigs. 
And corn rigs are bonnie : 

I'll ne'er forget that happy night 
Amang the rigs wi' Annie. 



Ctu '^tUnnglimaii, 

Tune — Up tvi' the Ploughman. 

The ploughman he's a bonnie lad. 

His mind is ever true, jo ; 
His garters knit below his knee. 
His bonnet it is blue, jo. 
Then up wi' my ploughman lad. 

And hey my merry ploughman 1 
Of a' the trades that I do ken. 
Commend me to the ploughman. 

My ploughman he comes hame at e'eii. 

He's aften wat and weary ; 
Cast off the wat, put on the dry. 

And gae to bed, my dearie ! 

I will wash my ploughman's hose, 
And I will dress his o'erlay ; 

I will mak my ploughman's bed. 
And cheer him late and early. 

I hae been east, I hae been west, 
I hae been at Saint Johnston ; 

The bonniest sight that e'er I saw 
Was the ploughman laddie daucin*, 

Snaw-white stockins on his legs. 

And siller buckles glaucin' ; 
A guid blue bonnet on his head — 

And oh, but he was handsome I 

Commend me to the barn-yard. 

And at the corn-mou, man ; 
I never gat my coggie fou. 

Till I meet wi' the ploughman. 



^nng rniiifinsrli in Slitgust. (3io) 

Tune — / had a horse, 1 had nae mair. 

Naw westling winds and slaught'ring guns 
Bring autumn's pleasant weather; 

The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 
Amang the blooming heather : 



l( 




■WHEN WTT;1' \v-Af/s- i.K'M.ix- pi,/^<^r,, ^_^g BLAm, 



MY NANNEE, 0. 



201 



I Now 'cravin!:^ ffrain, wide o'er the plain, 

Delij^lits the weary farmer ; ["'gilt 

' AjkI the raoon shines bright, when I rove at 
To muse upon my charmer. 

I The partridge loves the fruitful fells ; 

The plover loves the mountains ; 
I Tlie woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; 

The soaring hern the fountains ; 
jThro' lofty groves the cushat roves. 

The path of man to shun it ; 
lie hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush. 

The spreading thoru the linnet. 

[Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find. 

The savage and the tender ; 
Some social join, and leagues combine : 

Some solitary wander : 
|Avaunt, away ! the cr\iel sway, 

TjTannic man's dominion ; 
j The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry. 

The flutt'riug gory pinion. 

[ But Peggy, dear, the ev'ning's clear. 

Thick flies tlie skimming swallow ; 
he sky is blue, the fields in view. 

All fading-green and yellow; 
ICome, let us stray our gladsome way. 

And view the charms of nature; 
[ The rustling corn, the fruited thorn. 

And every happy creature. 

|We'lI gently walk, and sweetly talk, 
Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
111 grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest. 

Swear how I love thee dearly : 
lot vernal show'rs to budding ilow'n^ 

Not autumn to the farmer. 
So dear can be as thou to me. 
My fair, my lovely charmer I 



f nn WiWi Bnssti J^Iniiiitfiins. (3ii) 

Tune — Yon wild tnossy Mountains. 

ON wild mossy mountaius sae lofty aiul 

wide, [Clyde, 

That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the 

AVhore the grouse lead their coveys thro' the 

heather to feed. 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes 
on his reed. 
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' 

the heather to feed. 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he 
pipes on his reed. 

Not Cowrie's rich vallies, nor Forth's sunny 

shores. 
To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy 

moors ; 



For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream, 

Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my 

dream. [stream. 

For there, by a lanely and sequester'd 

Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and 

my dream. 

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my 

path, [strath : 

'Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow 

For there wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove. 

While o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' 

love. [rove, 

For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I 

While o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours 

o' love. 

She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair ; 

O' nice education but sma, is her share ; 

Her parentage humble as humble can be ; 

But 1 loe the dear lassie because she loes me. 
Her parentage humble as humble can be : 
But 1 loe the dear lassie because she loes 



To beauty what man but maun yield him a 

prize, [sighs ! 

In her armour of glances, and blushes, and 

And when wit and refinement hae poUsh'd 

her darts. 

They dazzle our een, as they flee to our hearts. 

And when wit and refinement hae polish'd 

her darts, [hearts. 

They dazzle our een, as they flee to oiur 

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond 

sparkling e'e. 
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; 
And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in 

her arms, [charms ! 

Oh, these, are my lassie's all-conquenn» 

And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'ti 

in her arms. 
Oh, these are my lassie's aU-couqueriug 

charms 1 



Bi] 



mnm, 6. (312) 

Tune — My Nannie, O. 

Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 
'Mang moors and mosses many, O, 

The wintry sun the day has clos'd. 
And I'll awa to Nannie, O. 

The westlin wind hlaws loud and shrill ; 

The night's baith mirk and rainy, ; 
But I'll get my plaid, and out I'll steal. 

And owre the lulls to Nannie, 0. 



202 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



My Nannie's charminfr, sweet, aud young 

Nae artfu' wues to win ye, O : 
May ill bcfa' the flattering ton<;ue 

That wad beguile ray Nannie, O. 
Her face is fair, her heart is true. 

As spotless as she's boniiie, O: 
Th;; op'ning gowan, wet wi dew, 

Nae purer is than Nannie, O. 

A country lad is my degree. 

And few there be that ken me, O; 

But what care I how few they be? 
I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O. 

My riches a's my penny-fee, 

And 1 maun guide it cannie, O ; 

But warl's gear ne'er troubles me. 
My thoughts are a' my Naimie, O, 

Our auld guidman delights to view 
His sheep and kye thrive bonnie, O ; 

But I'm as blythe that hands his pleugh. 
And has nae care but Nannie, O. 

Come weel, come woe, I care nae by, 
I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' me, O ; 

Nae ither care in life have I, 

But live, and love my Nannie, O. 



§mn ^mm. tljc Sliisljcs. (sis) 

Tune — Green grow the Rashes. 

CHORUS. 

Green grow the rashes, O ! 
Green grow the raslies, O ! 

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend 
Are spent amang the lasses, O. 
There's nought but care on ev'ry hau', 

in every hour that ]iasses, O : 
Wliat signifies the life o' man. 

An 'twere na for the lasses, O. 
The warily race may riches chase. 

And riches still may fly them, O ; 
And tho' at last they catch them fast. 

Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, 0, 
But gie me a canny hour at e'en. 

My arras about my dearie, O ; 
And warl'ly cares, and warl'ly mea. 

May a' gae tapsalteene, O. 
For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, 

Ye're nought but senseless asses, O: 
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw. 

He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. 
Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 

Her noblest work she classes, O : 
Her 'prentice han' she tried on mau. 

And then she made the lasses, O. 



■iHllD (Cnri fnr- all Care, 

Tune — Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the 
Tavern let's fly. 

No churchman am I for to rail and to write. 
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight. 
No sly man of business contriving a snare — 
For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my 
care. 

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow ; 
I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low ; 
But a club of good fellows, like those that 

are here. 
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 

Here passes the squire on his brother — liis 

horse ; 
There centum per centum, the cit with his 

purse ; 
But see you The Crown, how it waves in the 

air ! 
There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care. 

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; 
I found that old Solomon proved it fair. 
That a big-belhed bottle's a cure for all care. 

I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; — 
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up 

stairs. 
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 

" life's cares they are comforts." (314)— o 

maxim laid down 
By the liard, what d'ye call him, that wore 

the black gown ; [hair ; 

And, faith, I agree with th' old prig to a 
For a big-bellied bottle's a heav'n of care. 

ADDED IN A MASON LODGE. 

Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow. 
And honours masonic prepare for to throw ; 
May every true brother of the compass aud 
square [care ! 

Have a big-bellied bottle when harass'd with 



(Dii <0r5£imrk Sanlts. 

Tune — If he he a Butcher neat and trim. 
On Cessnock banks there lives a lass. 

Could I describe her shape and mien; 
The graces of her weel-faur'd face, 

Aud the glancin' of her sparklin' een ! 

She's fresher than the morning dawn 
W hen rising Phoebus first is seen, 

When dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn ; 
And she's twa glancin' sparklm' een. 



FEOM THEE, ELIZA. 



203 



Slie's stately like yon youthful ash, 
Tliat grows the cowshp braes between. 

And shoots its liead above each bush ; 
And she's twa glancin' sparklin" een. 

She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn, 

With flow'rs so white, and leaves so green. 

When purest in the dewy morn ; 
And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her looks are like the sportive lamb 
■When flow'ry i\Iay adorns the scene. 

That wantons round its bleating dam ; 
And she's twa glancin' sparklin een. 

Iler hair is like the curling mist 

That shades the mountain -side at e'en. 

When flow'r-reviving rains are past ; 
And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her forehead's like the show'ry bow. 
When shining sunbeams intervene. 

And gild the distant mountain's brow ; 
And she's twa glaucm' sparklin' eeu. 

Her voice is like the evening thrush 
That sings in Cessnock banks unseen, 

■\'\Tiile his mate sits nestling in the bush ; 
And she's twa glancin* sparklin' een. 

Her lips are like the cherries ripe 

That sunny walls from Boreas screen — 

They tempt the taste and charm the sight ; 
And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her teeth are hke a flock of sheep, 
With fleeces newly washen clean. 

That slowly mount the rising steep ; 
And she's twa glancin' sparklin' eeu. 

Her breath is like the fragrant breeze 
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, 

■UTien Phoebus sinks beneath the seas ; 
And she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

But it's not her air, her form, her face, 
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen. 

But the mind that shines in ev'ry grace. 
And chiefly in her sparklin' een. 



ffiljB Sigjjlanlr tmn. (sis) 

Tune — The Beuks dang o'er my Daddy I 

Nae gentle dames, tho* e'er sae fair. 

Shall ever be my muse's care : 

Their titles a' are empty sliow : 

Gie me my highland lassie, O. 

Within the glen sae bushy, O, 
Aboon the plains sae rushy, O, 
I set me down wi' right good will. 
To sing my higldand lassie, O. 



Oh, were you hills and vallics mine. 
Yon palace and yon gardens line ! 
Tlie world then the love should know 
I bear my highland lassie, O. 

But fickle fortune frowns on me. 
And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
But while my crimson currents flow, 
I'll love my highland lassie, O. 

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
I know her heart will never change. 
For her bosom burns with honour's glow. 
My faithful highland lassie, O. 

For her I'll dare the billows' roar. 
For her I'll trace a distant shore, 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
Around my highland lassie, O. 

She has my heart, she has my hand. 
By sacred truth and honour's baud I 
'Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low 
I'm thine, my highland lassie, O. 

Farewell the glen sae bushy, O ! 
Farewell the plain sae rushy, O I 
To other lands I now must go. 
To sing ray highland lassie, O. 



'^nrarrs IJrltstial. 

Tune — Blue Bonnets. 
Powers celestial ! whose protection 

Ever guards the virtuous fair, 
Wliile in distant climes I wander, 

Let my iMary be your care : 
Let her form sae fiiir and faultless. 

Fair and faultless as your own, 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit 

Draw your choicest influence down. 

Make the gales you waft around her 

Soft and peaceful as her breast. 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her. 

Soothe her bosom into rest : 
Guardian angel ! oh protect her. 

When in distant lands I roam ; 
To realms unknown while fate exiles me, 

Make her bosom still my home. 



/rnm iljrr, (BliiJ. 

Tune — Gilderoy, or Donald. 

From thee, Eliza, I must go. 
And from my native shore, 

The cruel Fates lietween us tlirow 
A boundless ocean's roar • 



19 



204 



BUKNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



But boundless oceans roaring wide. 

Between my love and me. 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee^ 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear. 

The maid that I adore 1 
A boding voice is in mine ear. 

We part to meet no more I 
The latest throb that leaves my heart. 

While death stands victor by. 
That throb, Eliza, is thy part. 

And thine that latest sigh I 



Mum. 

Tone — Johnny's grey Breelcs. 

Again rejoicing nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues. 
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze. 
All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 
And maun I still on Menie doat 

And bear the scorn that's in her ee ? 
For it's jet, jet black, and like a hawk. 
And winna let a body be. 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw. 
In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; 

In vain to me, in glen or shaw. 
The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 

Tlie merry ploughboy cheers his team, 
\Vi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks ; 

But life to me's a weary dream, 
A dream of aue that never wauka. 

The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the duckhngs cry, 

The stately swan majestic swims. 
And everything is blest but I. 

The shepherd steeks his faulding slap. 
And owre the moorland whistles shrill; 

Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step, 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, 
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, 

And mounts and sings on flittering wings, 
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. 

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl. 
And raging bend the naked tree : 

Tliy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul. 
When nature all is sad like me ! 



Sljc /arcracU. 

TO THE BRETHREN OF ST. JA.MES's LODOE, 
TARBOLTON. 

Tune — Good-night, and joy be wi' you <fl 

Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu ! 

Dear brothers of the mystic tie I 
Ye favour'd, ye enligliten'd few. 

Companions of my social joy; 
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie. 

Pursuing Fortune's slipp'ry ba'. 
With melting heart and brimful eye, 

I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'. 

Oft have I met your social band. 

And spent the cheerful, festive night ; 
Oft honour'd with supreme command. 

Presided o'er the sous of light ; 
And by that hieroglyphic bright. 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! 
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa.' 

May freedom, harmony, and love 

Unite you iu the grand design, 
Beneath th' Omniscient eye above. 

The glorious Architect divine ! 
That you may keep th' unerring line. 

Still rising by the plummet's law. 
Till order bright completely shine. 

Shall be my pray'r when far awa'. 

And you, farewell ! whose merits claim. 
Justly, that highest badge to wear ! 

Ileav'n bless your honour'd, noble name. 
To masonry and Scotia dear; 

A last request permit me liere. 
When yearly ye assemble a'. 

One round — I ask it with a tear- 
To him, the Bard that's far awa'. 



(01]E %im n' Sallnrljiinilc. (3i6) 

Tune — The Braes o' Ballochmyle. 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen. 

The flowers decay'd on Catrine lea, 
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green. 

But nature sicken'd on the ee. 
Thro' faded groves Maria sang, 

Hersel iu beauty's bloom the while. 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, 

Fareweel the Braes o' Ballochmyle ! 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers. 

Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair ; 
Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers. 

Again ye'll charm the vocal air. 
But, here, alas 1 for me nae raair 

Shall birdie charm, or flow'ret smile; 
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle I 



THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 



205 



€l!i fans n* Sallniiimiib. (3i7) 

Tune — Miss Furbcs's Farewell to Banff. 
TwAS even — the dewy fields were green, 

On every blade the pearlies hang, 
The zephyr wantou'd round the bean. 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang : 
In ev'ry glen the mavis sang. 

All nature list'ning seem'd the while, 
Except where greenwood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward stray'd. 

My heart rejoiced in nature's joy. 
When, musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy ; 
Her look was like the morning's eye. 

Her air like nature's vernal smile. 
Perfection whispet'd passing by. 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! 

Fair is the morn in flow'ry I\Iay, 

And sweet is night in autumn mild ; 
When roving thro' the garden gay. 

Or wand'ring in the lonely wild : 
But woman, nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does compile; 
Ev'n there her other works are foil'd 

By the bouuie lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Oh, had she been a country maid. 

And I the happy country swain, 
Tho' shelter'd ia the lowest shed 

That ever rose on Scotland's plain. 
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain. 

With jo3% with rapture, I would toil ; 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The Bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle ! 

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, 

'Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep. 

Or downward seek the Indian mine ; 
Give me the cot below the pine. 

To tend the flocks, or till the soil. 
And ev'ry day have joys divine 

AVith the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 



CjlB (Slnmiii; Jligjit is (fi^Htljrring /ast. 

(318) 
Tune — Roslin Castle. 
The gloomy night is gath'ring fast. 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast ; 
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain ; 
Tlie hunter now has left the moor. 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure ; 
While here I wander, prest with care. 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 



The autumn mourns her rip'ning com. 

By early winter's ravage torn ; 

Across her placid, azure sky, 

She sees the scowling tempest fly : 

Chill rims my blood to hear it rave— 

I think upon the stormy wave, 

AMiere many a danger I must dare. 

Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr 

'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 

'Tis not that fatal deadly shore ; 

Tho' death in every shape appear. 

The wretched have no more to fear! 

But round my heart the ties are bound. 

That heart transpierc'd with many a woimd* 

These bleed afresh, those ties I tear. 

To leave the bonny banks of Ayr. 

Farewell old Coila's hills and dales. 

Her heathy moors and winding vales ; 

The scenes v here wretched fancy roves. 

Pursuing past, luihappy loves ! 

Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes ! 

My peace with these, my love with those— 

The bursting tears my heart declare ; 

Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr ! 



^{rs Sanks n' Snnn. (3i9) 

Tune — Caledonian Hunt's Delight. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair; 
How can ye chant, ye httle birds. 

And I sae weary fu' o' care ? 
Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird. 

That wanton'st thro' the flowering thoru : 
Thou minds'st me o' departed joys. 

Departed — never to return ! 

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, 

To see the the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve. 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
And my fuse luver stole my rose. 

But, ah 1 he left the thorn wi' me. 



Q^ljE Sirks nf 511irrfrlili;. (320) 

'Tune — The Birks of Ahergeldy. 

CHORUS. 

Bonnie lassie, will ye go, 
Will ye go, will ye go ; 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go. 
To the birks of Aberfeldy? 

Now simmer blinks on flowTy braes. 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays ; 
Come, let us spend the lightsome days 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 



206 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Tlie little birdies blythcly sing, 
\Vliile o'er their heads the hazels hing. 
Or liglitly flit on wanton wing 

In the birks of Aberfeldy. 
The braes ascend, like lofty wa'a. 
The foamy stream deep-roaring fa's, 
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws. 

The birks of Aberfeldy. 
The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers. 
White o'er the linns the biirnie po>ir3, 
And rising, weets wi' misty showers 

The bilks of Aberfeldy. 
Let tortune's gifts at random flee. 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me 
Supremely blest wi' love and thee, 

In the birks of Aberfeldy. 



S'm nturs ^nting In 3Harrij f^rt. 

Tune — I'm owre young to marry yet. 

1 AM my mammy's ae bairn, 

Wi' unco folk I weary. Sir; 
And if I gang to your liouse, 

I'm fley'd 'twill make me eerie. Sir. 

I'm owre young to marry yet • 
I'm owre young to marry yet j 

I'm owre young — 'twad be a sin 
To take me frae my mammy yet 

Hallowmas is come and gane. 

The nights are lang in winter. Sir; 

And you and I in wedlock's bands. 
In troth, I dare not venture. Sir. 
I'm owre young, &c. 

Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind 

Blaws through the leafless timmer. Sir; 

But if ye come this gate again, 
I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. 
I'm owTe youug, &c. 



BI'^t^jlErsnn's /arrraill. (321) 

Tune — M'PIierson's Rant. 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 

Tlie wretch's destinie : 
Macpherson's time will not be long 
On yonder gallows-tree. 

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dauntingly gacd he ; 
He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round. 
Below the gallows-tree. 

Oh, what is death but parting breath ?^ 

On many a bloody plwu 
I've dar'd his face, and in this place 

I scoru him yet again ; 



Untie these bands from off my hands. 

And bring to me my sword ; 
And there's no man in all Scotland, 

But I'll brave him at a word. 

I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife ; 
. I die by treacherie : 
It burns my heart I must depart, 
And not avenged be. 

Now farewell light — thou sunshine bright, 

And all beneath the sky ! 
May coward shame distain his name^ 

The wretch that dares not die I 



Mm f niig Hnh Drraq is tlrs Sligp. 

How long and dreary is the night 

Wlien I am frae my dearie ! 
I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn, 
Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. 
I sleepless lie frae e'en to mom. 
The' I were ne'er sae weary. 

"S^Tien I think on the happy days 

I spent wi' you, my dearie. 
And now what lands between us lit^ 
How can I be but eerie ! 

And now what lands between us lio, 
How can I be but eerie ! 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, 

As ye were wae and weary ! 
It was na sae ye glinted by. 
When I was m' my dearie. 
It was na sae ye glinted by. 
When I was wi' my dearie. 



Mm*5 fl Staltlj ta ilirni lljat's ania. 

Tune — Here's a health to them that's awa. 
Here's a health to them that's awa. 
Here's a health to them that's awa; 
And wha wiima wish guid luck to our cause^ 
May never guid luck be their fa' ! 
It's guid to be merry and wise. 
It's guid to be honest and true. 
It's guid to support Caledonia's cause. 
And bide by the bulT and the blue. 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 
Here's a health to them that's awa ; 
Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the clan, 
Altho' that his band be sma'. 
May liberty meet wi' success ! 
'May prudence protect her frae evil ! 
May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist. 
And wander their way to the devil 1 



MY PEGGY'S FACE. 



207 



Here's a health to them that's awa. 
Here's a heallh to them that's awa ; [laddie, 
Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland 
That lives at the \ng o' the law ; 
Here's freedom to him that wad read ! 
Here's freedom to him that wad write ! 
There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should 

he heard, 
But they wham the truth wad indite. 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 
Here's a health to them that's awa; 
Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a Chieftain worth 

gow'd, 
Tlio' bred amang mountains o' snaw ! 
Here's friends on both sides of the Forth, 
And friends on both sides of the Tweed ; 
And wha wad betray old Albion's rights. 
May they never eat of her bread. 



Itratljalkn's f amrnt. (322) 

Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling ! 

Howling tempests, o'er me rave ! 
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling. 

Still surround my lonely cave ! 

Crystal streamlets gently flowing, 
Busy haunts of base mankind. 

Western breezes softly blowing, 
Suit not my distracted mind. 

In the cause of right engaged, 
Wrongs injurious to redress, 

Honour's war we strongly waged, 
But the heavens denied succesa. 

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us. 
Not a hope that dare attend : 

Tlie wide world is all before us — 
But a world without a friend. 



QIljE 5BanIt5 nf tijf ^mm. (323) 

Tune — Bhannerach dlion na chri. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear winding 

Devon, [blooming fair ! 

With green spreading bushes, and flowers 

But the bonuiest flower on the banks of the 

Devon [Ayr. 

Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the 

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower. 

In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the 

dew ; 

And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower. 

That steals on the evening each leaf to 



Oh spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 
AVith chUl hoary wing, as ye usher the 
dawn ; [seizes 

And far b:; thou distant, thou reptile that 
The verdure and pride of the garden and 
lawn! 
Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded Lilies, 
And England, triumphant, display her 
proud Rose : 
A fairer than either adonis the green vallies. 
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meanderuig 
flows. 



Srauing Mngrq l^intrr's Itnrms. (324) 

Tune — Neil Gow's Lamentation for 
Ahcrcairuy. 

Where, braving angry winter's storma. 

The lofty Ochils rise. 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wondering eyes ; 

As one, who by some savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam. 

With arts most polish'd blaze. 

Blest be the wild sequester'd shade. 

And blest the day and hour. 
Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd. 

When first I felt their pow'r ! 

The tyrant death, with grim control. 
May seize my fleeting breath ; 

But tearing Peggy from my soul 
Must be a stronger death. 



3Hii 1<5rggij'5 /are. 

Tune — My Peggy's Face. 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form. 
The frost of hermit age might warm ; 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, 
IMight charm the first of human kind. 
1 love my Peggy's angel air. 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair. 
Her native grace so void of art. 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 
The lily's hue, the rose's dye. 
The kindling lustre of an eye : 
Who but owns their magic sway! 
Who but knows they all decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear. 
The gen'rous purpose, nobly dear. 
The gentle look, that rage disarms — 
These are all immortal charms. 



19^ 



208 



BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



laning Winh arnunii Ijrr Slnming. 

(325) 
Tune — Macgrerjor of Ruara's Lament. 
Raving winds around her blowing. 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing. 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray'd deploring — 
"Farewell hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow. 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow! 

O'er the past too fondly wandering. 
On the hopeless future pondering; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes. 
Fell despair my fancy seizes. 
Life, thou soul of every blessing. 
Load to misery most distressing. 
Gladly how would I resign thee. 
And to dark oblivion join thee !" 



SJi.qljlanlr Sjarri}. (326) 

My Harry was a gallant gay, 

Fu' stately strode he on the plain t 
But now he's banish'd far away, 
I'll never see hira back again. 
Oh for him back again ; 

Oh for him back again ! 
I wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land 
For Highland Harry back again. 

When a' the lave gae to their bed, 

I wanaer dowie up the glen : 
1 sit me down and greet my fill. 

And aye I wish him back again. 
Oh were some villians hangit high. 

And ilka body had their ain ! 
Then I might see the joyfu' sight. 

My Highland Harry back again. 



3Eiising na IIie IRnaring i^mn. (327) 

Tune — Dniimion Dubh. 
Musing on the roaring ocean 

Which divides my love and me ; 
Wearying Heaven in warm devotion, 

For his weal where'er he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow 
Yielding late to nature's law, 

'WTiisp'ring spirits round my pillow 
Talk of him that's far awa. 

Ye whom sorrow never wounded. 

Ye who never shed a tear, 
Cai-e-untroubled, joy surrounded, 

Gaudy day to you is dear. 



Gentle night, do thou befriend me : 
Downy sleep, the curtain draw ; 

Spirits kind, again attend me. 
Talk of him that's far awa ! 



Mi\\l}i mas IIje. (328) 

Tune — Andro and his Cutty Gun, 

CH0RU3. 

Blythe, blythe and merry was she^ 
Blythe was she butt and ben : 

Blythe by the banks of Em, 
And blythe in Glentwrit glen. 

By Auchtertyre grows the aik. 

On Yarrow banks the birken shaw ; 

But Phemie was a bonnier lass 
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 

Iler looks were like a flower in May, 
Her smile was like a simmer morn ; 

She tripped by the banks o' Em, 
As light's a bird upon a thorn. 

Her bonnie face it was as meek 

As ony lamb upon a lea ; 
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 

As was the blink o' Phemie's ee. 

The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, 
And o'er the lowlands I hae been ; 

But Phemie was the blythest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 



®I;e mm Wmm, 

Tune — The Weaver's March. 

Where Cart rins rowin' to the sea. 
By mony a flow'r and spreading tree^ 
There hves a lad, the lad for me. 
He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh, I had wooers aucht or nine. 
They gied me rings and ribbons fine; 
And I was fear'd my heart would tine. 
And I gied it to the weaver. 

My daddie sigu'd my tocher-band. 
To gie the lad that has the land ; 
But to my heart I'll add my hand, 
And gie it to the weaver. 

Wliile birds rejoice in leafy bowers; 
While bees delight m op'uing flowers ! 
While com grows green in simmer showerts 
I'll love my gallant weaver. 



WHEN JANUAU' WIND. 



ao9 



Ilje Slu!ir-rr!i '£d5p at fwk inaij Slam. 

Tune — To daunton me. 

The blude-red rose at Yule may blaw. 
The simmer lillies bloom in snaw. 
The frost may freeze the deepest sea ; 
But an auld man shall never daunton me. 

To daunton me, and me so young, 
Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue 
That is the thing you ne'er shall see : 
For an old man shall never daunton me. 

For a' his meal and a' his maut. 
For a' his fresh beef and his saut. 
For a' his gold and white monie. 
An auld man shall never daunton me. 

His gear may buy him kye and yowes. 
His gear may buy him glens and knowes; 
But me he shall not buy nor fee. 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 

He hirples twa-fauld as he dow, 

Wi' his teethless gab and his auld held pow, 

And the rain rains down from his red bleer'd 

ee — 
That auld man shall never daunton me. 



i f\E5r-liiiii iiti inij (0arlij W^lk. (329) 

Tu.VE— ne Rose-hud. 

A ROSE-BUD by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk. 

All on a dewy morning. 
Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled. 
In a' its crimson glory spread. 
And drooping rich the dewy head. 

It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest, 
A little linnet fondly prest. 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 

Sae early in the morning. 
She soon shall see her tender brood. 
The pride, the pleasure o' tlie wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd. 

Awake the early moriiing. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair I 
On trembling string or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 

That tends thy early morning. 
So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day. 
And bless the parent's evening ray 

That watch'd thy early morning. 



iSaiinip C'stlj d?nrltii!i. 

Tune — Mo rag. 

Stream-s that glide in orient plains, 
Never bound by winter's chains; 

Glowing here on golden sands. 
There commix'd with foulest stains 

From tyranny's empurpled bands; 
These, their richly gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 

The banks by Castle-Gordou. 

Spicy forests, ever gay. 
Shading from the burning ray 

Hapless wretches sold to toil. 
Or the ruthless native's way, 
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil; 
AVoods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave ; 
Give me the groves that lofty bravo 

The storms by Castle-Gordon. 

Wildly here without control. 
Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 

In that sober pensive mood. 
Dearest to the feeling soul. 

She plants the forest, pours the flood : 
life's poor day I'll musing rave. 
And find at night a sheltering cave. 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave, 

By bonnie Castle-Gordon. 



IVljm Saimar' X^int (sso) 

Tune — The Lass that made the Bed lo Me. 

When Januar' wind was blawing cauld. 
As to the north I took my way. 

The mirksome night did me enfauld, 
I knew iia where to lodge till day, 

By my good luck a maid I met. 

Just in the middle o' my care; 
And kindly she did me invite 

To walk into a chamber fair. 

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid. 
And thank'd her for her courtesie, 

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid. 
And bade her mak a bed to me. 

She made the bed baith large and ■<!n'i», 
Wi' twa white hands she spread it down; 

She put the cup to her rosy lips. 

And drank, " Young man, uow sleep ye 
Boun'." 

She snatch'd the candle in her hand. 
And frae my chamber went wi' speed ; 

But I call'd her quickly back again 
To lay some mair below my heiuL 



flO 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



A cod she laid below my head. 
And served me wi' due respect ; 

And to salute her wi' a kiss, 
I put my arms about her neck. 

" Haud aff your bauds, young man," she 
says, 

" And dinna sae uncivil be : 
If ye hac ony love for me, 

Oh wrang na my virginitie '." 

Her hair was like the links o' gowd. 

Her teeth were like the ivorie ; 
Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
Her bosom was the driven snaw, 

Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see ; 
Her limbs the polish'd marble stane. 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again, 

And aye she wist na what to say ; 
T laid her 'tween me and the wa'— 

The lassie thought na lang till day. 
Upon the morrow when we rose, 

I tliaiik'd ht?t for her courtesie ; 
But aye sh*- olush'd, and aye she sigh'd. 

And said, " Alas ! ye've ruin'd me." 
I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne. 

While the tear stood twinklin' in her ee ; 
I said, " My lassie, dinna cry. 

For ye aye shall mak the bed to me." 
She took her mither's Holland sheets. 

And made them a' in sarks to me : 
Blythe and merry may she be. 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
Tlie bonnie lass made the bed to me. 

The braw lass made the bed to me : 
I'll ne'er forget till the day I die. 

The lass that made the bed to me ! 



% f^nnng iigljlanJr Unnir. 

Tune— jlfora^. 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes. 

The anaws the mountains cover ; 
Like winter on me seizes, 

Since my young Highland Rover 

Far wanders nations over. 
Where'er he go, where'er he stray, 

Jlay Heaven be his warden. 
Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 

And bounie Castle-Gordon ! 
The trees now naked groaning. 

Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging. 
The birdies dowie moaning. 

Shall a' be blythely singing. 

And every f wcr be spri. ^ing. 



Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day. 
When by his mighty warden 

My youth's returned to fair Strathspey, 
And bonuie Castle-Gordon. 



Snniiic SInit. (331) 

Air — Ye gallants bright. 

Ye gallants bright, I red ye right. 

Beware o' bonnie Ann ; 
Her comely face sae fu' of grace. 

Your heart she will trepan. 
Her een sae bright, like stars by night. 

Her skin is like the swan ; 
Sae jimply lac'd her genty waist, 

Tliat sweetly ye might span. 
Youth, grace, and love attendant more. 

And pleasure leads the van : 
In a' their charms, and conquering arms. 

They wait on bonnie Ann. 
The captive bands may chain the hands. 

But love enslaves the man; 
Ye gallants braw, I red you a'. 

Beware o' bonuie Ann 1 



Slnnming ItUij. 

Tune — On a Bank of Flowers. 

On a bank of flowers, in a summer day. 

For simimer lightly drest, 
The youthful blooming Nelly lay. 

With love and sleep opprest ; 
WTien Willie, wand'ring thro' the wood. 

Who for her favour oft had sued, 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd. 

And trembled where he stood. 

Her closed eyes like weapons sheath'd. 

Were seal'd in soft repose ; 
Her lips still as she fragrant breath'd. 

It richer dy'd the rose. 
The springing lilies sweetly prest, 

Wild— wanton, kiss'd her rival breast ; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd- 

His bosom iU at rest. 
Her robes light waving in the breeze. 

Her tender limbs embrace ; 
Her lovely form, her native ease. 

All harmony and grace : 
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, 

A faltering, ardent kiss he stole ; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blusb'd — 

And sigh'd his very soul. 
As flies the partridge from the brake. 

On fear-inspired wings. 
So Nelly starting, half awake. 

Away affrighted springs : 



OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW. 



211 



But 'VVillie follow'd, as he should. 
He overtook her in the wood ; 

lie vow'd, he pray'd, he found the maid 
Forgiving all and good. 



HIij %mm 3}!an[. (332) 

Tune — Go fetch to vie a Pint o' Tllne. 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine. 

And fill it in a silvei^assie ; 
Tliat I may drink, before I go, 

A. service to my bonny lassie : 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry ; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun leave my bonnie ilary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

Tlie glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

Tlie battle closes thick and bloody ; 
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar — ■ 

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 



5lnr /nnli Hiss. (333) 

Tune — Rory Ball's Port. 

Ane fond kiss and then we sever; 
Ane fareweel, alas, for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee. 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him, 
\Miile the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy 
But to see her was to love her; 
Love but her, and love for ever. 
Had we never lov'd sae kindly. 
Had we never lov'd sae blindly. 
Never met — or never parted, 
AVe had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare the weel, thou best and dearest 1 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure. 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 
Ane fond kiss, and then we sever; 
Ane fareweel, alas ! for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wTung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee 1 



ffJfE litttling Spring. 

Tune— The Bonny Bell. 

The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing, 

And surly winter grimly flies ; 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters. 

And bonnie blue are the sunny skies. 
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the 
morning, 

The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning. 

And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. 
The flowery spring leads sunny summer. 

And yellow autumn presses near, 
Then in his turn comes gloomy winter. 

Till smiling spring again appear. 
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing. 

Old Time and Nature their changes tell. 
But never ranging, still unchanging, 

I adore my bonnie Bell. 



Tune — The Lazy Mist. 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the 

hill, [rill; 

Concealing the course of the dark winding 
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, 

appear 1 
As autumn to winter resigns the pale year. 
The forests are leafless, the meadows are 

brown, 
.^nd all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse. 
How quick time is flying, how keen fate 

pursues ! 

How long I have liv'd — but how much liv'd 

in vain ! 
How little of life's scanty span may remain ! 
What aspects old Time, in his progress, has 

worn ! 
What ties cruel fate in my bosom has torn ! 
How foolish, or worse, till our summit is 

gain'd 1 
And downward, how weaken'd, how dark- 

en'd, how pain'd ! [give — 

This life's not worth having with all it can 
For something beyond it poor man sure 

must live. 



(Df a' ilji! Mitts l\)t Winli m Slam. 

(334) 

Op a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives. 

The lassie I loe best : 



212 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



There wild woods grow, and rivers row. 

And Tuony a hill between ; 
liut day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair : 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air ; 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green, 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings. 

But minds me o' my Jean. 

Oh blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft 

Araang the leafy trees, 
Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale 

Bring hame the laden bees ; 
And bring the lassie back to me 

That's aye sae neat and clean ; 
Ane smile o' her wad banish care, 

Sae charming is my Jean 1 

What sighs and vows amang the knowes 

Hae passed atween us twa ! 
How fond to meet, how wae to part. 

That night she gaed awa ! 
The powers aboon can only ken. 

To whom the heart is seen. 
That nane can be sae dear to me 

As my sweet lovely Jean .' 



Tune. — 3I>/ Love is lost to me. 

Oh, were I on Parnassus' hill ! 
Or had of Helicon my fill ; 
That I might catch poetic skill. 

To sing how dear I love thee. 
But Nith maun be my muse's well, 
My muse maun be thy bonnie sel' ; 
On Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell. 

And write how dear I love thee. 

Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the lee-lang snnmer's day 
I couldna sing, I couldna say. 

How much, how dear, I love thee. 
I see thee dancing o'er the green. 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean. 
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een — 

By heaven and earth I love thee ! 

By night, by day, a-field, at harae. 

The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; 

And aye I muse and sing thy name — 

I only live to love thee. 
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on 
.Beyond the sea, beyond the sun. 
Till my last weary sand was run ; 

Till then — and tiien I love thee. 



% (Pjjriiallirr's famrnt. (336) 

Tune — Captain O'Kean. 

The small birds rejoice in the gi-een leaves 

returning, [the vale ; 

The murm'ring streamlet winds clear thro' 

The hawthorn trees blow in the dew of 

the morning, [green dale : 

And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the 

But what can give pleasure, or what can 

seem fair, [by care? 

While the lingering moments are numbered 

No flowers gaily springing, nor birds 

sweetly singmg. 

Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 

The deed that I dared, could it merit their 
malice, 
A king and a father to place on his throne ? 
His right are these hills, and his right are 
these vallies, 
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but 
I can find none. [forlorn ; 

But 'tis not my suff'erings thus wretched, 
My brave gallant friends ! 'tis your ruin I 
mourn ! [trial — 

Your deeds proved so loyal in hot bloody 
Alas ! I can make you no sweeter return ! 



3IIij jBrart'fl in tljE SJigjjIaiitis. 

Tune — Failte na Miosg. 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is 
not here, [deer ; 

My heart's in the Highlands achasing the 

Chasing the wild deer, and following the 
roe — 

My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the 
North, [worth ; 

The birth-place of valour, the country of 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 

Farewell to the mountains high covered 
with snow ; [below : 

Farewell to the straths and green vallies 

Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging 
woods ; [floods. 

Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart ia 
not here, [deer : 

My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the 

Chasing the wild deer, and following the 
roe — 

My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 




Ai'hLD JjANCt SYa;; 



on, WILLIE BREWD. 



213 



^nlin ^In&rrsnn. 

Tune — John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

When we first acqiient. 
Your locks were like the raven. 

Your bonnie brow was brent; 
But now your brow is bald, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw ; 
But blessincfs on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 
John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither. 
And n\ony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' aiie anither : 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in liand we'll go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. 

f n Hlarij in Srnnrn. (337) 

I Tune — Death of Captain Cook. 

Tnou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray. 
That lov'st to greet the early morn. 
Again thou ushcr'st in the day 
My Jlary from my soul was torn. 
On Mary ! dear departed shade I 
Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
Ste'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
I Hear'st thou the groans that rend his 
breast ? 
That sacred hour can I forget. 
Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
WHiere by the winding Ajt we met. 

To live one day of parting love 1 
Eternity will not eflface 

Those records dear of transports past; 
Thy image at our last embrace. 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 
Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, 
O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning 
green ; 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 

Tnin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene ; 
Tlie flow'rs sprang wanton to be prest. 
The birds sang love on every spray- 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 
I Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes. 

And fondly broods with miser care ! 
I Time but th' impression stronger makes. 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary, dear departed shade 1 

Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? 

Hear'st thou the fproans that rend his 
1 . breast ? 



f nnng Snrkru. 

Tune — Yonwj Jockey. 

Young Jockey was the blythest lad 

In a' our town or here awa : 
Fu' blythe he whistled at the gaud, 

Fu' lightly danced he in the ha', 
lie roosed my een, sae bonnie blue, 

lie roosed my waist sae genty sma', 
And aye my heart came to my raou' 

A\'hen ne'er a body heard or saw. 
My Jockey toils upon the plain, 

Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and sna\f 
And o'er the lea I leuk fu' fain, 

When Jockey's owsen hameward ca' 
And aye the night comes round again, 

When in his arms he takes me a'. 
And aye he vows he'll be my ain. 

As Ling's he has a breath to draw. 



CljE Dati Uttiirns. (338) 

TuNK — Seventh of November. 

The day returns, my bosom burns, 

The blissful day we twa did meet, 
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd. 

Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide. 

And crosses o'er the sultry line ; 
Tlian kingly robes, than crowns and globes, 

Heav'n gave me more — it made thpe mine 

A^Hiile day and night can bring delight. 

Or nature aught of pleasure give, 
While joys above my mind can move. 

For thee, and thee alone, I live. 
When that grim foe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part. 
The iron hand that breaks our band. 

It breaks my bliss — it breaks mv heart I 



(JMj. WMi %xm% (339) 

Tune. — U^illie hrew'd a Peck o' Mult. 

On, Willie hrew'd a peck o' maut. 

And Rob and Allan cam to pree : 
Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night. 
Ye wad na find in Christcndie. 

We are nae fou', we're no that fou'. 

But just a drappie in our ce ; 
Tlie cock may craw, the day may daw, 
And aye we'll taste the barley bre«. 

Here are we met, three merry boys. 
Three merry boys, I trow, are we; 

And mony a night we've merry becu. 
And mony mae we hope to be 1 



l\\ 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



It is the moon, I ken her horn, 

That's bliiikin' m the Hft sae hie ; 
She shines sae brig^ht to wile us harrfe, 

But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee ! 
Wlia first shall rise to gang awa', 

A cuckold, coward loon is he I 
Wha last beside his chair shall fa'. 

He is the kina; amang us three ! 



S gapjt a IVarfii' Mt ft^Amn. (340) 

Tune — The Blue-eyed Lass. 
I GAED a waefn' gate yestreen, 

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; 
I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 

Twa lovely eeu o' bonnie blue. 
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; 

Her lips like roses wet wi' dew. 
Her heaving bosom, lily-white — 

It was her een sae bonnie blue. 
k:he talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wil'd ; 

She charm'd my soul — I wist na how ; 
And aye the stound, the deadly wound. 

Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. 
Eut spare to speak, and spare to speed ; 

She'll aiblins listen to my vow : 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 

To her twa een sae bonnie blue 



(fljc SSanks nf llitl;. 

Tune — Eobie donna Gorach. 
The Tliames flows proudly to the sea, 

Where royal cities stately stand ; 
But sweeter flows the Nith, to me, 

AMiere Cummins ance had high command ; 
When shall I see that honour'd land. 

That windnig stream I love so dear ! 
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand 

For ever, ever keep me here '? 
How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales. 

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom ! 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales. 

Where lambkins, wanton thro' the broom ! 
Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom. 

Far from thy bonnie banks and braes. 
May there my latest hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days ! 



Bif Ijrart is a-lirraking, Btar liitVit ! 

Tune— Tam Glen. 
My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie! 

Some counsel unto me come len'. 
To anger them a' is the pity. 

But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen ? . 



I'm thinking wi' sic a braw fellow 
In poortith I might make a fen'; 

What care I in riches to wallow. 
If I maunna marry Tarn Glen ? 

Tliere's Lowrie, the laird o' Drumeller, 
" Guid day to you, brute !" he comes ben; 

He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 

But when will he dance like Tam Glen ? 

My minnie does constantly deave me. 
And bids me beware o' young men; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me. 
But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen ? 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him. 
He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten; 

But if it's ordain'd I maun take him. 
Oh wha will I get but Tam Glen? 

Yestreen at the valentine's dealing, 
My heart to my mou' gied a sten ; 

For thrice I drew ane without failing. 
And thrice it was written — Tam Glen. 

Tlie last Halloween I was waukin 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; 

His likeness cam up the house staukin. 
And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen! 

Come counsel, dear Tittie ! don't tarry — 
I'll gie you my bonnie black hen, 

Gif ye will advise me to marry 
The lad I loe dearly, Tam Glen 



1[\}m'li nrnrr bt '^.IrarF. 

Tune — There are few guid fellows when 
Willie's awa. 

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 
I heard a man snig, though his head it was 

grey ; 
And as he was singing, the tears down came, 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 
The church is in ruins, the state is in jars ; 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars; 
We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's 

to blame. 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

JTy seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword. 
And now I greet round their green beds in 

the yerd. [dame- 

It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu' auld 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 
Now life is a burthen that bows me down. 
Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown ; 
But till my last moments my words are the 

same — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hamel 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE. 



2!5 



Bfiklr iljiiiks ini] ICnnp. 

Tune — My Tocher's the Jewel. 

Oh meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty. 

And meikle thinks my lave o' my kiu ; 
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie 

My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; 

It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee ; 
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, 

He canna hae luve to spare for me. 

Your proffer o' luve's an arle-penny, 

My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 
But an' ye be crafty, I am cunnin', 

Sae ye wi' another your fortune maun try. 
Y'e're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, 

Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, 
Ye'U slip frae me like a knotless thread, 

And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me. 



Mnm ran S hi %h\\\}t anti Qkl. 

Tune — The bunnie Lad that's far awa. 

On how can I be blythe and glad. 

Or how can I gang brisk and braw. 
When the bonnie lad that I loe best 
Is owre the hills and far awa ? 

Wlien tiie bonnie lad that I loe best 
Is owre the hills and far awa ? 

It's no the frosty winter wind. 

It's no the driving drift and snaw; 
But aye the tear comes in my ee, 
To think en him that's far awa. 
But aye the tear conies in my ee. 
To tliiiik oil him that's far awa. 

My father pat me frae his door. 

My friends they hae disown'd me a'. 
But I hae ane will tak my part, 
Tiie bonnie lad tliat's far awa. 
But I hae ane will tak my part, 
The bonnie laJ that's far awa. 

A pair o' gloves he gae to me, 

And silken snoods he gae me twa ; 
And I will wear them for his sake, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 

And I will wear them for his sake, 
The bunnie lad that's far awa. 



^ in ranfcsj tljnii art sac /air. (34i) 

I DO confess thou art sae fair, 
I wad been owre the lugs in love. 

Had I na found the slightest prayer 

That lips could speak thy heart could move. 



I do confess thee sweet, but tiiid 

Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets. 
Thy favours are the silly wind. 

That kisses ilka thing it meets. 
See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, 

Amang its native briers sae coy ; 
How sune it tines its scent and hue 

When pou'd and worn a common toy t 
Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide, 

Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile ! 
Y'"et sune thou shalt be thrown aside 

Like ony common weed and vile. 



23iinting lang. 

Tune — I red you beware at the hunting. 

The heather was blooming, the meadowi 

were mawn. 

Our lads gaed a-hunting ane day at the dawn. 

Owre moors and owre mosses and mony a 

glen, [lien. 

At length they discover'd a bonnie moor- 

I red you beware at the hunting, young 

men ; [men ; 

I red you beware at the hunting young 

Tak some on the wing, and some as they 

spring, 
But canndy steal on a bonnie moorhen. 
Sweet brushing the dew from the brown hea- 
ther bells. 
Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells ; 
Her plumage out-lustred the pride o' the 

spring, 
And oh ! as she wantoned gay on the wing. 

I red you beware, &c. 
Auld Phoebus himsel, as he peep'd o'er the 

hill, 
In spite at her plumage he tried his skill ; 
He levell'd his rays wliere she bask'd on the 

brae — 
His rays were outshone, and but mark'd 
where she lay. 
I red you beware, &c. 
They hunted the valley, they 'luntcd the hill ; 
The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill ; 
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight, 
Then, whirr ! she was over, a mile at a flight. 
I red you beware, &c. 



WUi ran a '^^niing ICassir. 

Tune — ir/iat can a young lassie do wP an 
auld man. 

What can a young lassie, what shall a young 

lassie, [man ? 

What can a voung lassie do wi' an aulJ 



20 



2iri 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Bad luck on the penny that tempted my 

miuuie 

To sell her poor Jenny for siller and Ian' 1 

Bad luck on the penny that tempted my 

miniiie [lau' ! 

, To sell her poor Jenny for siller and 

He's always compleenin' frae mornin to 

e'eniii', [lang ; 

He hoasts and he hirples the weary day 

He's doyl't and he's dozin', his bluid it is 

frozen, [man 1 

Oh, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld 

He's doyl't and he's dozin', his bluid it 

is frozen, 

Oh, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld 

man ! 

lie hums and he hankers, he frets and he 
cankers, 
I never can please him, do a' that I can ; 
He's peevish and jealous of a the young 
fellows : 
Oh, dool on the day I met wi' an old man ; 
He's peevish and jealous of a' the young 
fellows : 
Oh, dool on the day I met wi' an 
auld man ! 

My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, 
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 
I'll cross h'm, and wrack him, until I heart- 
break him, 
And then his auld brass will buy me a 
new pan. 
I'll cross him, and wrack him, \intil I 
heart-break him, 
And then his auld brass will buy me 
a new pan. 



QJIjr Snitnie Wit filing. 

Tune — Bonnie wee thing. 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 

Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 
I wad w ear thee in ray bosom, 

Lest ray jewel I should tine. 
Wishfully 1 look and languish, 

In that bonnie face o' thine ; 
And my heart it stounds wi' anguish. 

Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty. 

In ane constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duty, 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing. 

Lovely wee thnig, wert thou mine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom, 

Lest my jewel 1 should tine 1 



fDnrli; l^anirs. 

Tune — Miss Muir. 

now shall T, unskilfu', try 
The poet's occupation. 

The tunefu' powers, in happy hours, 

1'hat whispers inspiration? 
Even they mauu dare an effort mair 

Than aught they ever gave us. 
Or they rehearse, in equal verse. 

The charms o' lovely Havies. 

Each eye it cheers, when she appears. 

Like Phoebus in the morning. 
When past the shower, and ev'ry flower 

The garden is adorning. 
As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore, 

When winter-bound the wave is ; 
Sae droops our heart when we maun part 

Frae charming lovely Davies. 

Her smile's a gift, frae 'boon the lift, 

That maks us mair than princes ; 
A scepter'd hand, a king's command. 

Is in her darting glances ; 
The man in arms, 'gainst female charms. 

Even he her willing slave is ; 
He hugs his chain, and owns the reign 

Of conquering, lovely Davies. 

My muse to dream of such a theme. 
Her feeble powers surrender ; 

The eagle's gaze alone surveys 
The sun's meridian splendour : 

1 wad in vain essay the strain, 
The deed too daring brave is ; 

I'll drap the lyre, and mute admire 
The charms o' lovely Davies. 



(DIj, fnr anr-aiii-trarntij, ^m. 

Tune — The Moudiewort. 

CHORUS. 

And oh, for ane-and-twenty. Tarn, 
And hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tam, 

I'll learn my kin a rattlin' sang 
An' I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. 
They snool me sair, and baud me down. 

And gar me look like bluntie, Tam ! 
But three short years will soon wheel roun*— 

And then comes ane-and-twenty, Tam. 
A gleib o' lau', a claut o' gear. 

Was left me by my auntie, Tam ; 
At kitli or kin I need na spier, 

An' I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. 
They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 

Tlio' I raysel' hae plenty, Tam; 
Bat hear'st thou, laddie — there's my loof— 

I'm tliine at aue-and-tweiity, Tam. 



IN snrjrER, when the hay was mawn. 



217 



l^riiiiiiirr'5 nn anii '^ma. (3^2) 

TuN'E — O/i Kenmure's on and awa, Willie. 
On Kenmure's on and awa, Willie! 

Oh Kenmure's on and awa! 
And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord, 

Tliat ever Galloway saw. 

Success to Kenmure's band, Willie ! 

Success to Kenmure's band ; 
There's ua a heart that fears a Whij, 

That rides by Kenmure's hand. 

Here's Kenmure's health in wine ; 

Here's Kenmure's health in wine ; [blude. 
There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's 

Nor yet o' Gordon's line. 

Oh Kenmure's lads are men, Willie I 

Oh Kenmure's lads are men ; 
Their hearts and swords are metal true — 

And that their faes shall ken. 

Tliey'U live or die wi' fame, Willie ! 

They'll live or die wi' fame ; 
But soon, wi' sounding victorie. 

May Kenmure's lord come hame. 

Here's him that's far awa, Willie ! 

Here's him that's far awa ! 
And here's the flower that I love best — 

The ro«e that's like the snaw ! 



©rns ani jirr Spinning IDIjrrl, 

Tune — The sweel lass that toes me. 

On leeze me on my spinning-wheel. 
Oh leeze me on my rock and reel ; 
Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien. 
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en I 
I'll set me down and sing and spin, 
AVTiile laigh descends the simmer sun. 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal — 
Oh leeze me on my spinning-wheel ! 
On ilka hand the burnies trot. 
And meet below my theckit cot; 
The scented birk and hawthorn white. 
Across the pool their arms unite, 
Ahke to screen the birdies nest, 
And little fishes' caller rest : 
The sun blinks kindly in the biel'. 
Where blythe I turn my spinning-wheel. 
On lofty aiks the cushats wail. 
And echo cons the doolfu' tale ; 
The lintwbites in the hazel braes. 
Delighted, rival ither's lays : 
The craik amang the clover hay. 
The paitrick whirrin' o'er the ley. 
The swallow jinkin' round my shiel. 
Amuse mo at my spinning-wheeL 



^Vi' sma' to sell, and less to bny, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 
Oh wha wad leave this humble state. 
For a' the pride of a' the great ? 
Amid their flaring, idle toys. 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsonie joys. 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
Of Bessy at her spinning-wheel? 



(C»!j turn mill f^riitiirs in. 

Tune — The Posie. 

On hive will venture in where it dauma well 

be seen ; [has been ; 

Oh luve will venture in where wisdom ance 

But I will down yon river rove, among the 

wood sae green — 

And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. 

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the 

year, [dear. 

And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my 

For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms 

without a peer — 

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps 

in view, [mou' ; 

For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie 

The hyacinth for constancy, wi' its un 

changing blue — 

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear Jlay 

Tlie lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair. 

And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily 

there ; [air — 

The daisy's for simplicity, and unaffected 

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The hawthorn I will pu' «i' its locks o' sillei 

gn-ey. [day. 

"VVliere, like an aged man, it stands at break of 

But the songster's nest within the bush I 

winna tak away — • 

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 



in i'mwm, mljrii Hji Eiij mas Jtlainii. 

Tune — The Country Lass. 

In simmer, when the hay was mawn. 

And corn wav'd green in ilka field, 
While claver blooms white o'er the lea. 

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blythe Bessie in the milking shiel. 

Says—" I'll be wed, come o't what wilL" 
Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild — 

" O' guid advisement comes nae ilL 



218 



BURNVS POETICAL WORKS 



It's ye liae wooers moiiy ane. 

Ami, lassie, ye're but young, ye keu; 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale 

A routliie butt, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is liis barn/fu' is his byre ; 
Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen. 

It's plenty feeds the luver's tire." 

"For Johnnie o* the Bnskie-glen, 

I dinna care a single flie ; 
He loes sae weel his craps and kye. 

He has nae luve to spare for me : 
But blythe's the blink o' Robie's ee. 

And, weel I wat, lie loes me dear : 
Ane blink o' him 1 wad na gie 

For Buskie-glen and a' his gear." 

"Oh tlioughtless lassie, life's a faught ; 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; 
But aye fou han't is fechtin best. 

And hungry care's an unco care : 
But some wdl spend, and some will spare. 

And wilfu' folk maun hae their will ; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill." 

"Oh, gear will buy me rigs o' land, 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye ; 
But the tender heart o' leesome luve 

The gowd and siller canna buy ; 
We may be poor — Robie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
Content and luve brings peace and joy — 

What mair hae queens upon a throne?" 



Jfiirii again Hjnii /air llija. (343) 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ane kind blink before we part, 
Bue on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart ? 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

If to love thy heart denies. 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise ! 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine wad gladly die ? 
"While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe ; 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ane sweet smile on me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the blossom. 
In the pride o' sunny noon ; 

Not the little sporting fairy. 
All beneath the simmer moon ; 



isot the poet in the moment 
Fancy lightens on his ee. 

Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture 
That thy presence gies to me. 



imiii i^asilr. (344) 

Tune— r/ie Eii)ht Men ofMoidart. 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 

The spot they called it Linkum-doddie: 
Willie was a wabster guid, 

Cou'd stown a clew wi' ony bodie. 
He had a wife was dour and din, 

Oh Tinkler Madgie was her mither. 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad na gie a button for her. 
She has an ee — she has but ane, 

The cat has twa the very colour : 
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, 
• A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ; 
A whiskin' beard about her mou'. 

Her nose and cliin they threaten ither.- 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad na gie a button for her. 
She's bongh-hough'd, she's hein-shinu'd, 

Ane limpin' leg a hand-breed shorter ; 
She's twisted right, she's twisted left, 

To balance fair in ilka quarter : 
She has a hump upon her breast. 

The twin o' that upon her shouther. 
Sic a wife as W^illie had, 

I wad na gie a button for her, 
Anld baudrons by the ingle sits. 

And wi' her loof her face a-washiu' ; 
But 'Tillie's wife is nae sae trig. 

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushiou ; 
Her Malie nieves like midden-creels. 

Her face wad fyle the Logan- Water. 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I waJ na gie a button for her. 



' lurl; a parrrl nf IRngurs in a Jlatiaii. 

Tune — A parcel ofrorjues in a nation. 
Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame, 

Fareweel our ancient glory, 
Fareweel even to the Scottish name, 

Sae fam'd in martial story. 
Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands. 

And Tweed rins to the ocean. 
To mark where England's province stands:-* 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation ! 
What force or guile could not subdue, 

Thro' many warlike ages. 
Is wrought now by a coward few. 

For hireling traitors' wages. 



LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. 



219 



Tlie Ensrlisli s;teel we coiild disdain, 

Secure in valour's station ; 
But English gold has been our bane:— 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation! 
Oh would I had not seen the day 

That treason thus could fell us. 
My auld grey head had lien in clay, 

Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace ! 
But pith and power, till my last hour, 

I'll niak tnis declaration ; 
We're buught and sold for English gold: — 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation ! 

#Dng Ef iDratl;. (345) 

Tune — Oran an Diog. 

Scene — A tield of battle. — Time of the day, 
evenins?. — The wounded and dying of the 
victorious army are supposed to join In 
the foUowingf song : — 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, 
and ye skies. 
Now g;iy with the bright setting sun ; 
Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear tender 
ties — 
Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy 
foe! 
GO; frighten the coward and slave ; 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but 
know, 
No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 

Thou strik'st the dull peasant — he sinks in 
the dark. 
Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious 
mark ! 
He falfs in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honour — our swords in 
our hands. 
Our king and our country to save — 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing 
sands. 
Oh ! who would not die with the brave ! 



Hjp*5 /air anil fusv. 

Tune — She's fair and fuuse. 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart, 

I loed her meikle and lang ; 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart. 

And I may e'en gae hang. 
A coof cam in wi' routh o' gear, 

And ( iiae tnit my dearest dear; 
But womai^ is but warld'a gear, 

Sac let the bouuie lassie gang. 

20 



Whae'er ye be that woman love. 

To this be never blind, 
Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, 

A woman has't by kind. 

Oh woman, lovely woman fair ! 

Ati angel form's fa'n to thy share, 
'Twad been owre meikle to gien tliee mair — 

I mean an angel mind. 



/Inra im\\\% $mni Mhw. (346) 

Tune — The yellow-haired Laddie. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes, 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; 
]\Iy Jlary's asleep by thy murmurnig stream. 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 

dream. 

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro* 
the glen, [den, 

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny 

Thou green-ciested lapwing thy screaming 
forbear, 

I charge you disturb not my slumbering f;\ir. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring 
liills, [rills ; 

Far mark'd with the courses of clear winding 
There daily I wander as noon rises high. 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green vallies 
below ; [blow; 

Wliere wild in the woodlands the primroses 
There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea. 
The sweet-scented birk shades my I\Iary 
and me. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, howlovely it glides. 
And winds by the cot where my Mary residt-s; 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave. 
As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy 
clear wave. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among tliy green 
braes, [lays ; 

Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of iny 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream. 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 
dream. 



QijIE f nnrlii f ass nf Snncrnrss. 

Tune — Lass of Inverness. 

The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see* 

For e'en and morn she cries, alas ! 
And aye the sant tear blui's her ee ■ 



220 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Dnimossle moor — Drumossie day — 

A wacfu' clay it was to me ! 
For there 1 lost my father dear. 

My father dear, and brethren three. 

Their \*'inding sheet the bhiidy clay. 

Their graves are growing green to see : 
And by them lies the dearest lad 

That ever blest a woman's ee ! 
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 

A blnidy man I trow thou be ; 
Fjr mony a heart thou hast made sair. 

That ne'er did wrong to thhie or thee. 



51 rrii, rri t\m. (347) 

Tune — Graham's Strathspey. 

On, my hive's like a red, red rose 

That's newly sprung in June : 
Oh, my hive's like the melodic. 

That's sweetly play'd in tune. 
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass. 

So deep in luve am I : 
And I will luve thee still, my dear. 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 

And the rocks melt wi' the sun; 
I will luve- thee still, my dear, 

While the sands o' life shall run. 
And fare thee weel, my only luve ! 

And fare thee weel a while ! 
And I will come again my luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 



f niiis raljat rrrk S hi; iljw. 

Tune — Louis, what reck I by thee. 

Louis, what reck I by thee. 
Or Geordie on his ocean ? 

Dyvor, beggar louns to me — 
I reign in Jeanie's bosom. 

Let her crown my love her law. 
And in her breast enthrone me: 

Kings and nations — swith, awa ! 
Reif randies, I disown ye ! 



®lji i.Tri5niiaii. (348) 

Tune — The deil cam fiddling through 
the town. 

The deil cam fiddling through the town, 
A nd danced awa wi' the Exciseman, 

And ilka wife cries — " Aidd Mahoun, 
I wish you luck o' the prize man 1" 



The deil's awa, the deil's awa. 

The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman ; 

He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa. 
He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman ! 

We'll niak our maut, we'll brew our drink. 
AA'e'U dance, and sing, and rejoice, man ; 
And mony braw thanks to the nieikle black 
deil 
That danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman. 
The deil's awa, the deil's awa, 

The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman ; 
He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa, 
He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman. 

There's threesome reels, there's foursome 
reels. 
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 
But the ae best dance e'er cam to the land 
Was — the deil's awa wi' the Exciseman. 
The deil's awa, the deil's awa, 

The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman ; 
He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa. 
He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman. 



Ininrlinlii! ! 

Tune — For the sake of somehody. 

My heart is sair — I dare na tell — 
My heart is sair for somebody; 
I could wake a winter night 
For the sake of somebody. 
Oh-ho, for somebody 1 
Oh-hey, for somebody ! 
I could range the world around. 
For the sake o' somebody ! 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

Oh, sweetly smile on somebody I 
Frae ilka danger keep him free. 
And send me safe my somebody. 
Oh-ho, for somebody 1 
Oh-hey, for somebody ! 
I wad do — what wad I not ! 
For the sake o' somebody ! 



S'll ai|i! la'in lii] ijnii 'Hmu. 

Tune — I'll gae nae mair to yon town. 

I'll aye ca' in by yon town. 

And by yon garden green, again ; 
I'll aye ca' in by yon town. 

And see my bonnie Jean again. 
There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail guess. 

What brings me back the gate again. 
But she, my fairest faithfu' lass. 

And stownliiis we sail meet again; 



COULD OUGHT OF SONG. 



221 



She'll wanilir by the tiikcn tree, 

AVhen trystin-tiiiie draws near again; 
And when her lovely form I see, 

Oh haith, she's doubly dear again ! 
I'll aye ca' in by yon town. 

And by yon garden green, agaia; 
I'll aye ca' in by yon town, 

And see my bonnie Jean again. 



Wdt lljnti lip mij DrarJE? (349) 

Air — The Sutor's Dochter. 

Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

When sorrow wrings thy geiitle heart. 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

By the treasure of my soul. 

That's the love I bear thee ! 

I swear and vow that only thou 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Only thou, I swear and vow. 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou Iocs me ; 
Or if thou wilt nae be my ain. 
Say na thou'lt refuse me : 
If it winna, canna be. 
Thou, for thine may choose me. 
Let me, lassie, quickly die. 
Trusting that thou loes me. 
Lassie, let me quickly die. 
Trusting that thou loes me. 

^, Wnt ijF tV^a's in i;nn Otnmn. (350) 

Tune — I'll gae nae mair to yon town. 

On, wat ye wha's in yon town. 

Ye see the e'enin' sun upon P 
The fairest dame's in yon town, 

The e'enin' sun is shining on. 

Now haply down you gay green shaw, 
She wanders by you spreading tree ; 

IIow blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw. 
Ye catch the glances o' her ee ! 

How blest ye birds that round her sing. 
And welcome in the blooming year ! 

And doubly welcome be the sjiring. 
The season to my Lucy dear. 

The sun blinks blythe on yon town. 
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr ; 

But my delight in yon town. 
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. 

Without my love, not a' the charms 
O' Paradise could yield me joy ; 

But gie me Lucy ni my arms. 

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky ! 



Jly cave wad be a lover's bower, 
Tho' raging winter rent the air ; 

And she a lovely little flower. 
That I wad teut and shelter there. 

Oh sweet is she in yon town. 

Yon sinkin' sun's gane down upon; 

A fairer than's in yon town 

His setting beam ne'ei^ shone upoii. 

If angry fate is sworn my foe. 

And suflering I am doom'd to bear ; 

I careless quit ought else below, 

But spare me — spare me, Lucy dear I 

For while life's dearest blood is warm, 
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart, 

And she — as fairest is her form ! 
She has the truest, kindest heart I 



Snt Jatrlii ' mn. 

Tune— r/ie Winter of Life. 

But lately seen in gladsome green. 

The woods rejoiced the day ; 
Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers, 

In double pride were gay ; 
But now our joys are fled 

On winter blasts awa 1 
Yet maiden May, in rich array. 

Again shall bring them a'. 

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

Shall melt the snaws of age ; 
My trunk of eild, but buss or beild. 

Sinks in Time's wintry rage. 
Oh ! age has weary days. 

And nights o' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, 

AVhy comes thou not again ? 



Cnnlil nugbt nf f nitg. 

Tune — Could ought of song. 

Could ought of song declare my pains, 

Could artful numbers move thee, 
The muse should tell, in labour'd strains, 

Oh Mary, how I love thee I 
They who but feign a wounded heart 

May teach the lyre to languish; 
But wiiat avails the pride of art. 

When wastes the soul with angu'tjh? 

Then let the sudden bursting sigh 
The heart-felt pang discover ; 

And in the keen, yet tender eye. 
Oh read th' imploring lover I 



222 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



For well I know thy gentle mind 
Disdains art's gay disguising ; 

Beyond what fancy e'er refin'd, 
The voice of nature prizing. 



<^l), Itm lirr ^. 

Tune — Oh steer her up, and hand her gaun. 

Oh steer her up and hand her gaun — 

Her mother's at the mill, jo ; 
And gif she winna take a man, 

E'en let her take her will, jo; 
First shore her wi' a kindly kiss. 

And ca' another gill, jo. 
And gif she take the thing amiss, 

E'ven let her flyte her till, jo. 

Oh steer her up, and be na blatc. 

And gif she take it ill, jo. 
Then lea'e the lassie till her fate, 

And time nae langer spill, jo : 
Ne'er break your heart for ane rebate, 

But think upon it still, jo ; 
Then gif the lassie winna do't, 

Ye'U find anither will, jo. 



St mas a' far mir fxigljtfii' Uling. (35i) 

Tune — It was a' for our rightfu' king. 

It was a' for our rightfu' king 
We left fair Scotland's strand; 

It was a' for our rightfu' king 
We e'er saw Irish land. 

My dear ; 
We e'er saw Irish land. 

Now a' is done that men can do, 

And a' is done in vain ; 
My love and native land farewell. 

For I maun cross the main. 
My dear ; 

For I maun cross the main. 

He turned him right, and round about 

Upon the Irish shore ; 
And gie his bridle-reins a shake. 

With adieu forevermore. 
My dear ; 

With adieu for evermore. 

Tlie sodger from the wars returns. 

The sador frae the main ; 
But I hae parted frae my loTCv 

Never to meet again. 
My dear ; 

Never to meet again. 



When day is gane. and night is come, 
And a' folk bound to sleep ; 

I think on him that's far awa'. 
The lee-lang night and weep. 

My dear ; 
The lee-lang night and weep. 



(Djj iBIja is ^lii; tljat f nss ra?. 

Tune — Morag. 

Oil wha is she that loes me. 

And has my heart a-keeping? 
Oh sweet is she that loes me, 
As dewsio' simmer weeping. 
In tears the rose-buds steeping ! 
Oh that's the lassie o' my heart 

!My lassie ever dearer ; 
Oh that's the queen o' womankind. 
And ne'er a ane to peer her. 

If thou shalt meet a lassie 

In grace and beauty charming. 

That e'en thy chosen lassie, 

Erewhile thy breast sae wanning. 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming. 

If thou hadst heard her talking. 
And thy attentions plighted. 

That ilka body talking, 

But her by thee is slighted. 
And thou art all delighted. 

If thou hast met this fair one ; 

When frae her thou hast parted. 
If every other fair one. 

But her, thou hast (leserted. 
And thou art broken-hearted ; 
Oh that's the lassie o' my heart. 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
Oh that's the queen o' womankind, 
And ne'er a ane to peer her. 



Calriinnla. 

Tone — Caledonian Hunt's Delight. 

There was once a day — but old Time then 
was young — [line, 

That brave Caledonia, the chief of her 
From some of your northern deities sprun.,', 
(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's 
divine ?) 
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain. 
To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she 
would : 
Her heav'nly relations there fixed her 
reign. 
And pledg'd lier their godheads to war- 
rant it good. 



GLOOMY DECESIBER. 



223 



A lamlikin in peace, but a lion in war, 
The iiridc of her kindred the heroine 
grew : 
Her grandsire old Odin, triumphantly swore 
" Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' en- 
counter shall rue ! " [sport, 
With tillage or pasture at times she would 
To feed her fair flocks by her green 
rustling corn ; [resort, 
Dut chiefly the woods were her fav'rite 
resort, [the horn. 
Her darling amusement the hounds and 

Long quiet she reigu'd; till thitherward 

steers 

A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand : 

Eepeated, successive, for many long years, 

They darken'd the air, and they pluuder'd 

the land ; [cry. 

Their pounces were murder, and terror their 

They conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside ; 

She took to her hills, and her arrows let 

fly— [died. 

The daring invaders they fled or they 

The fell harpy-raven took wing from the 
north, [the shore ; 

The scourge of the seas, and the dread of 
The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth 
To wanton in carnage, and wallow in 
gore : [prevail'd. 

O'er countries and kingdoms their fury 
No arts could appease them, no arms 
could repel ; 
But brave Caledonia in vain they assailed. 
As Largs well can witness and Loncartie 
tell. 

The Cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose. 
With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and 
strife ; 
Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose. 
And robb'd him at once of his hopes and 
his life : 
The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 
Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's 
silver flood : 
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 
He learned to fear in his own native wood. 

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and 
free, [run : 

Her bright course of glory for ever shall 
For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 
I'll prove it from Euclid as dear as the 
sun : 
Eectangle-triangle the figure we'll choose. 
The upright is Chance, and old Time is 
the base ; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse; 
Then ergo, she'll match them, and match 
them always. 



^, lai) tljii ICnnf in Mm, Tass 

Tune — Cordwainer's March. 

On lay thy loof in mine, lass. 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; 
And swear on thy white hand, lasi^ 
That thou wilt be my ain. 

A slave to love's unbounded sway. 
He aft h.is wrought me meikle wae; 
But now he is my deadly fae. 
Unless thou be my ain. 

There's mony a lass has broke my rest, 
That for a bhnk I hae lo'ed best ; 
But thou art queen within my breast. 
For ever to remain. 

Oh lay thy loof in mine, lass. 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass : 
And swear on thy white hand, la?s. 
That thou wUt be my ain. 



5lnna, ilji] Cljarms. 

Tune — Bonnie Mary. 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire. 

And waste my soul with care ; 
But, ah ! how bootless to admire. 

When fated to despair ! 
Yet in thy presence, lovely fair. 

To hope may be forgiv'n ; 
For sure 'twere impious to despair. 

So much in sight of Heav'a, 



§km\\ irrrinliEr. 

Tune — Wandering Willie. 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy Decern 
her ! 
Ance mair I hail thee, wi' sorrow and care ; 
Sad was the parting thou makes me re- 
member. 
Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 
Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful plea- 
sure, [hour ; 
Hope beaming mild on the soft ])artiiig 
But tlie dire feeling, oh farewell for ever, 
Is anguish unmingled and agony pure. 

Wild as the wnter now tearing the forest, 
Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown, 

Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom. 
Since my last hope and last comfort is 
gone. 



224 

Still as I hail thee, tliou g:loomy December, 
Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 

For sad was the parting thou uiakest me re- 
member, 
Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKis. 



(!!)l) aiallifs rarrk, Blallifs srarrt. 

On Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, 

Mally's modest and discreet, 
Mally's rare, Mally's fair, 

Jlally's every way complete. 

As I was walking up the street, 
A barefit maid I chanc'd to meet; 

But oh the road was very hard 
For that fair maiden's tender feet. 

It were mair meet that those fine feet 
Were weel lac'd up in silken shoon. 

And 'twere more fit that she should sit 
Within yon chariot gilt aboon. 

Her yellow hair, beyond compare, 

Comes triiikling down her swan-white neck; 

And her two eyes, like stars in skies. 
Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. 



fosillis' 5Bank3. 

Now bank and brae are claith'd in green, 

And scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring ; 
By Girvan's fairy-haunted stream 

The birdies flit on wanton wing. 
To Cassillis' banks when e'enhig fa's, 

There wi' my Mary let me flee. 
There catch her ilka glance of love. 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's ee I 
Tlie child wha boasts o' warld's wealth 

Is aften laird o' meikle care ; 
But Mary she is a' my ain — 

Ah ! fortune cannie gie me mair. 
Then let me range by Cassillis' banks, 

Wi' her, the lassie dear to me. 
And catch her ilka glance o' love. 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's ee ! 



BItj f aiii's §mn, lljrrf's Mb npn't. 

Tune — Gregg's Pipes. 

My Lady's gown, there's gairs upon't. 
And gowden flo^^■ers sae rare upon't; 
But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet. 
My lord thinks mickle mair upon't. 



]\Iy lord a-hunting he is gane. 

But hounds or hawks wi' him are naue j 

By Cohn's cottage hes his game. 

If Coliu's Jenny be at hame. 

My lady's white, my lady's red. 
And kith and kin o' Cassillis' bluid ; 
But her ten-pund lands o' tocher guid 
Were a' the charms his lordship loed. 

Out owre yon muir, out owre yon moss, 
Whare gor-cocks thro' the heather pass. 
There wons anld Colin's bonnie lass, 
A lily in a wilderness. 

Sae sweetly move her gentle limbs, 
Like music notes o' lovers' hymns : 
The diamond dew is her een sae blue. 
Where laughing love sae wanton swims, 

]My lady's dink, my lady's drest. 
The flower and fancy o' the west ; 
But the lassie that a man loes best. 
Oh that's the lass to make him blest. 



^\}i ^t\t (JJlj^inptrp. (352) 

Tune — Killkrankie. 

On wha will to Saint Stephen's house, 

To do our errands there, man ? 
Oh wha will to Saint Stephen's hous(^ 

O' th' merry lads of Ayr, man ? 
Or will we send a man-o'-law ? 

Or will we send a sodger ? 
Or him wha led o'er Scotland a' 

The meikle Ursa-Major ? 

Come, will ye court a noble lord. 

Or buy a score o' lairds, man ? 
For worth and honour pawn their word, 

Thdir vote shall be Glencaird's, man ? 
Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine, 

Anither gies them clatter ; 
Anbank, wha guess'd the ladies' taste. 

He gies a Fete Champetre. 

■Wlien Love and Beauty heard the news. 

The gay green-woods amang, man ; 
Where,gathering flowers and busking bowers, 

They heard the blackbird's sang, man : 
A vow, they seal'd it with a kiss 

Sir Politics to fetter. 
As theirs alone, the patent-bliss. 

To hold a Fete Champetre. 

Then mounted ]\Iirth, on gleesome wing, 
Owre hill and dale she flew, man ; 

Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring. 
Ilk glen and shaw she knew, maa : 




U l.J'Vr ME IN -THIK AE ^ICtHT. 



■ I 



LOVELY POLLY STEWART. 



225 



She summon'd every social sprite. 

That sports by wood or water, 
On th' boniiie banks of Ayr to meet. 

And keep this Ffite Champetre. 

Cauld Boreas, wi' his boisterous crew, 

AVere bound to stakes like kye, mau : 
And C^nithia's car, o' silver fu', 

Clamb up the starry sky, man : 
Reflected beams dwell in the streams. 

Or down the current shatter ; 
The western breeze steals through the trees 

To view this Fete Champetre. 

Dow many a robe sae gaily floats I 

AMiat sparkling jewels glance, man 1 
To Harmony's enchanting notes, 

As moves the mazy dance, man. 
The echoing wood, the winding flood. 

Like Paradise did glitter, 
AA'hen angels met, at Adam's yett, 

To hold their Fete Champetre. 

When Politics came there to mix 

And make his ether-stane, man : 
He circled round the magic ground. 

But entrance found he nane, man : (353) 
He blushed for shame, he quat his name. 

Forswore it, every letter, 
Wi' humble prayer to join and share 

This festive Fete Champetre. 



(CIjE Dnmfrirs ITnlnntrrrs. 

Tune — Push about the Jorum. 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ? 

Then let the loons beware. Sir ; 
Tliere's wooden walls upon our seas. 

And volunteers on shore. Sir. 
The Nith shall run to Corsicon, 

And Criffel sink in Sol way. 
Ere we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rally I 
Fal de ral, &c. 

Oh, let us not like snarling tykea 

In wrangling be dinded ; 
Till, slap, come in an unco loon. 

And wi' a rung decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain true, 

Among oursels united ; 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs be righted 
Fal de ral, &c. 

Tlie kettle o' the kirk and state. 
Perhaps a claut may fail iu't : 

But deil a foreign tinkler loon 

Shall ever ca' a nail iu't. 

Q 



Our father's bluid the kettle bought. 
And wlia wad dare to spoil it ; 

By heaven, the sacrilegious dog 
Shall fuel be to boil it. 
Fal de ral, &c. 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own. 

And the wretch his true-born brother. 
Who would set the mob aboon the throne. 

May they be damned together ! 
Who will not sing " God save the King." 

Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
But while we sing " God save the King," 

We'll ne'er forget the Peonle. 
Fal de ral, &c. 



^, rarrt Qlljaa in tjiB fonlii Slast. (354) 

Tune — Lass o' Livistone. 

On, wert thou in the cauld blast 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea. 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 
I'd shelter thee, Pd shelter thee : 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around the blaw, around thee blaw. 
Thy bield should be my bosom. 

To share it a', to share it a'. 
Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare. 
The desert were a Paradise, 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there : 
Or were I monarch o' the globe, 

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign. 
The brightest jewel in ray crown 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 



f nnrlij ^.^nlli; IJrraarh 

Tune — Ye' re welcome, Charlie Slewatt. 
Oh lovely Polly Stewart ! 

Oh charming Polly Stewart ! 
There's not a flower that blooms in May 

That's half so fair as thou art. 
The flower it blaws, it fades and fa's. 

And art can ne'er renew it ; 
But worth and truth eternal youth 

Will give to Polly Stewart. 

May he whose arms shall fauld thy chamu 

Possess a leal and true heart ; 
To him be given to ken the heaven 

He grasps in Polly Stewart. 
Oh lovely Polly Stewart ! 

Oh charming Polly Stewart I 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May 

That's half so sweet as thou art. 



226 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Tune — Banks of Banna. 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, 

A place where body saw na' ; 
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine 

The gowden locks of Anna. 
The hungry Jew in wilderness 

Rejoicing o'er his mauna, 
Was naething to my hinny bliss 

Upon the lips of Anna. 

Ye monarchs tak the east and west, 

Frae Indus to Savannah ! 
Gie me within my straining grasp 

The melting form of Anna. 
There I'll despise imperial charms. 

An empress or sultana, 
While dying raptures in her arms 

I give and take with Anna ! 

Awa, thou flaunting god o' day 1 

Awa, thou pale Diana ! 
Hk star gae hide thy twinkling ray. 

When I'm to meet my Anna. 
Come, in thy raven plumage, night ! 

Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a'j 
And bring an angel pen to WTite 

My transports wi' my Anna 1 



Tune — The Lea rig. 

When o'er the hill the eastern star 

Tells bughtin time is near, my jo ; 
And owsen frae the furrow'd field, 

Return sae dowf and weary O ; 
Down by the burn, wliere scented birka 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
111 meet thee on the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie O. 

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, 
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, 

lily ain kind dearie O. 
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild. 

And I were ne'er sae wearie O, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 

The hunter loes the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo } 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen. 

Along the burn to steer, my jo ; 
Gie me the hour o' gloamiu grey. 

It maks my heart sae cheery O, 
To meet thee on the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie O. 



l5nn!tiB f tsltij. (355) 

Tune — The Collier's Bonnie Lassie, 

Oh saw ye bonnie Lesley, 

As she gaed owre the border ? 

She's gane, like Alexander, 
To spread her conquests farther. 

To see her is to love her. 

And love but her for ever ; 
For nature made her what she is. 

And never made anither ! 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects we, before thee; 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 

Tlie deil he could na scaith thee. 
Or aught that wad belang thee ; 

He'd look into thy bonnie face. 
And say " I canua wrang thee." 

The powers aboon will tent thee ; 
■ Misfortune sha' na steer thee ; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely. 
That ill they'll ne'er let near theet 

Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie ! 
That we may brag, we hae a lass 

There's nane again sae bonnie. 



^ill ijB §rs. h tijE SnMrs, m\\ Mm- (356) 

Tune — The Eive-buchts. 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
And leave aidd Scotia's shore ? 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
Across the Atlantic's roar ? 

Oh sweet grow the lime and the orange, 

And the apple on the pine ; 
But a' the charms o' the Indies 

Can never equal thine. 

I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, 
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true ; 

And sae may the Heavens forget me. 
When I forget my vow 1 

Oh plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily-white hand ; 

Oh pliglit me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual alfection to join ; 
And curst be the cause that shall part us ! 

The hour and the moment o' time! 



DUNCAN GKAY. 



227 



She is a winsome wee thing. 
She is a handsome wee thing. 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 

I never loe'd a dearer ; 

And neist my heart I'll wear he» 

For fear my jewel tine. 

On leeze me on my wee thing. 
My bonnie blythesome wee thing; 
Sae lang's I hae my wee thing, 
I'll think my lot divine. 

Tho' warld's care we share ot. 
And may see meikle mair o't ; 
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it. 
And ne'er a word repine. 



SigljIanJi 31Iari;. (357) 

Tune — Katharine Ogie. 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers. 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first imfauld her robes. 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

0' my sweet Highland ilary. 

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk. 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom. 
As underneath their fragrant shade, 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
Tlie golden hours, ou angel wings. 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me as light and life. 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

WV mony a vow, and lock'd embrace. 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

A\'e tore oursels asunder ; 
But oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 

Tliat nipt my flower sae early ! 
Kow green's the sod, and cauld's the clay. 

That wraps my Highland Mary 1 

Oh pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
And clos'd for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ; 
And mouldering now in silent dust 

That heart that loe'd me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



Slitlli fvnh 3MiFrri5. 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon 
glen, [men ; 

He's the king o' guid fellows and wale o' auld 

He has goud in his coffers, he has owsen and 
kine, 

And ane bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May » 
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new 
hay : [lea. 

As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the 
And dear to my heart as the light to my ee. 

But, oh ! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a 
laird, [and yard ; 

And my daddie has naught but a cot-house 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed. 
The wounds I must hide that will soou be 
my dead. 

The day comes to me, but delight brings me 
nane; [gane: 

The night comes to me, but my rest it is 

I wander my lane hke a night-troubled 
ghaist, [breast. 

And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my 

Oh had she but been of a lower degree, 
I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon 
me ! [bliss. 

Oh, how past describing had then been my 
As now my distraction no words can express! 



Snnrait feij. 

Duncan Gray came here to woo. 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
On blythe Yule night when we were fii'. 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan flcech'd, and Duncan pray'd; 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat his eeu baith bleert and h]ia\ 
Spake o' lowpin' owre a hnn ; 

Ha, ha, &c. 

Time and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Slighted love is sair to bide. 

Ha, ha, &c. 
21 



li2S 



BUKNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Shall I, like a fool, quoth he. 
For a haughty hizzie die ? 
She may gae to — France for me ! 
Ha, ha, &c. 

How it comes let doctors tell. 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Meg grew sick — as he grew heal. 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Something in her hosom wrings. 
For relief a sigh she brings ; 
And oh, her een, they speak sic things 

Ha, ha, &c. 

Duncan was a lad o' grace. 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Maggie's was a piteous case. 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan could na be her death. 
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
Now they're crouse and canty baith; 

Ha, ha, &c. 



f nnrtitl; l^anli. 

Tune — I had a Horse. 

Oh poortith cauld, and restless love. 

Ye wreck my peace between ye ; 
Yet poortith a' I could forgive. 

An 'twere na for my Jeanie. 
Oh why should fate sic pleasure have, 

Life's dearest bands untwining ? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love, 

Depend on Fortune's shining? 

This warld's wealth when I think on. 
Its pride, and a' the lave o't ; 

Fie, fie on silly coward man. 
That he should be the slave o't. 
Oh why, &c. 

Her een sae bonnie blue betray 
How she repays my passion ; 

But prudence is her o'erword aye. 
She talks of rank and fasliion. 
Oh why, &c. 

Oh wha can prudence think upon. 

And sic a lassie by him ? 
Oh wha can prudence think upon. 

And sae in love as I am ? 
Oh why, &c. 

How blest the humble cotter's fate ! 

He wooes his simple dearie ; 
The silly bogles, wealth and state. 

Can never make Ihem eerie. 
Oh why, &c. 



Msi Wain, (358) 

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes. 

That wander thro' the blooming heather; 
But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws. 

Can match the lads o' Gala Water. 
But there is ane, a secret ane, 

Aboon them a' I loe him better; 
And I'll be his and he'll be mine. 

The bonnie lad o' Gala Water. 

Altho' his daddie was nae laird. 
And tho' I hae na meikle tocher; 

Yet rich in kindness, truest love. 

We'll tent our flocks by Gala Water. 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was we»lth. 
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure; 

The bands and bliss o' mutual love. 

Oh, that's the chiefest warld's treasure I 



fnrir tognrij. 

Oh mirk, mirk is this midnight hour. 

And loud the tempests roar ; 
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower, 

Lord Gregory, ope thy door. 

An exile frae her father's ha'. 

And a' for loving thee ; 
At least some pity on me shaw. 

If love it may na be. 

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the gtovo 

By bonnie Irwine side. 
Where first I own'd that virgin-love 

I lang, lang had denied ? 

How aften didst thou pledge and vow 

Thou wad for aye be mine ; 
And ray fond heart, itsel sae true. 

It ne'er mistrusted thine. 

Hard is thy heart. Lord Gregory, 

And flinty is thy breast : 
Thou dart of heaven that flashest by. 

Oh wilt thou give me rest ! 

Ye mustering thunders from above 

Your willing victim see; 
But spare and pardon my fause love, 

Hia wrauffs to Heaven and me 1 



SHanj Hnrisnn. (359) 

Tune — Bide ye yet. 

Oh Mary, at thy window be 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! ■ 

Those smiles and glances let me see. 
That make the miser's treasure poor : 



THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. 



229 



How blythely wad I bide the stoure, 
A weary slave frae sun to sun. 

Could I the rich reward secure. 
The lovely JNIary Morison. 

Yestreen when to the trembling string, 

The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha'. 
To thee my fancy took its wing, 

I sat, but neither heard nor saw. 
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw. 

And yon the toast of a' the town, 
I sigh'd, and said amang them a' 

" Ye are na Mary Morisou." 

Oh Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee ? 
If lo^e for love thou wilt na gie. 

At least be pity to me shown; 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



^anhring l^illip. 



Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, baud awa hame ; 
Come to my bosom, my aiu only dearie, 
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 

Winter-winds blew loud and cauld at our 

parting. 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my ee; 
Welcome now simmer and welcome my 

Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Rest, ye wild storms, iu the cave of your 

slumbers. 
How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
Wauken, ye breezes! row gently, ye billows ! 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my 

arms ! 

But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his 

Nannie, 
Flow still between us thou wide-roaring main ! 
May I never see it, may I never trow it, 
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain I 



^t hMtfs fxctiirn. (3co) 

AiR — The mill, mill 0. 

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn. 

And gentle peace returning, 
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 

Aud mouy a widow mourning : 



I left the lines and tented field, 
Where lang I'd been a lodger. 

My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 
A poor but honest sodger. 

A leal, light heart was in my breast. 

My hand unstain'd wi' plunder : 
And for fair Scotia, hame again, 

I cheery on did wander. 
I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy ; 
I thought upon the witching smile 

That caught my youthful fancy. 

At length I reach'd the boniiie glen 

Where early life I sported ; 
I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn. 

Where Nancy aft I courted : 
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid 

Down by her mother's dwelling ! 
And turn'd me round to hide the flood 

That in my een was swelling. 

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, " Sweet lass, 

Sweet as you hawthorn's blossom. 
Oh ! happy, happy may he be. 

That's dearest to thy bosom ! 
Jly purse is light, I've far to gang. 

And fain would be thy lodger ; 
I've served my king and country lang- 

Take pity on a sodger !" 

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me. 

And lovelier was than ever ; 
Quo' she, " A sodger ance I loe'd, 

Forget him shall I never : 
Our humble cot and hamely fare 

Ye freely shall partake o't ; 
Tliat gallant badge, the dear cockade, 

Ye're welcome for the sake o't. 

She gaz'd — she redden'd like a rose — 

Syne pale like ony lily ; 
She sank within my arms, and cried, 

" Art thou my ain dear Willie ?" 
" By Him who made yon sun and sky. 

By whom true love's regarded, 
I am the man ; and thus may still 

True lovers be rewarded. 

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame. 

And find thee still true-hearted ! 
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love. 

And mair we're ne'er be parted." 
Quo' she, "Jly grandsire left me gowd, 

A mailen plenish'd fairly ; 
And come, my faithfu' sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly." 

For gold the merchant ploughs the main, 
The farmer ploughs the manor ; 

But glory is the sndger's prize. 
The sodger's wealth is honour. 



230 



BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The brave poor sodsrer ne'er despise. 
Nor count him as a stranger : 

Remember he's his country's stay 
In day a,nd hour of danger. 



SIiiiljE jiaB % hnn m pn Mil 

Tune — Liggeram Cosh. 
Blythe hae I been on yon hill. 

As the lambs before me ; 
Careless ilka thought and free. 

As the breeze flew o'er me : 
Now nae lj;iger sport and play. 

Mirth or sang can please me ; 
Lesley is sae fair and coy, 

Care and anguisli seize me. 
Heavy, heavy is the task. 

Hopeless love declaring : 
Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'r, 

Sighnig, dr.mb, despairing ! 
If she winna ease the tliraws 

In ray bosom swelling. 
Underneath the grass-green sod. 

Soon maun be my dwelling. 



fngan I3rars. (sei) 

Tune — Logan Water. 

Oh Logan, sweetly didst thou glide 
That day I was my Willie's bride ; 
And years sinsyne hae o'er us run. 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
But now thy flow'ry banks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, 
AVhile my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 

Again the merry month o' May 

Has made our hills and vallies gay ; 

The birds rejoice in leafy bowers. 

The bees hum round the breathing flowers : 

Blythe morning lifts his rosy eye. 

And evening's tears are tears of joy: 

My soul, delightless, a' surveys. 

While Wilhe's far frae Logan braes. 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush ; 
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil. 
Or wi' his songs her cares beguile : 
But I wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer. 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days. 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

Oh, wae upon you, men o' state, 
That brethren rouse to deadly bate! 
As ye make many a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 



How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tear, the orphan's cry ? 
But soon may peace bring happy days. 
And Willie hame to Logau braes I 



(Dlf, gin tnij tnm ram' pit IRrtt IRdsj! (362) 

Air — Hughie Graham. 

On, gin my love were yon red rose 
That grows upon the castle wa' ; 

And I mysel a drap o' dew, 
luto her bonnie breast to fa' ! 

Oh there, beyond expression blest, 
I'd feast on beauty a' the night ! 

Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest. 
Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light. 

Oh, were my love yon lilach fair, 
Vi'i' purple blossoms to the spring. 

And I, a bird to shelter there, 

Wlien wearied on my little wing-^ 

How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 

But I wad sing on wanton wing. 

When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd. 



%Um %tn. (363) 

There was a lass, and she was fair. 
At kirk and market to be seen ; 

When a' the fairest maids were met. 
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 

And aye she wrought her mammie's wark. 
And aje she sang sae merrilie : 

The blythest bird upon the bush 
Had ne'er a Ughter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That Idess the little lintwhite's nest ; 

And frost will blight the fairest flowers; 
And love will break the soundest rest. 

Young Robie was the brawest lad. 
The flower and pride of a' the glen; 

And he had owscn, sheep, and kye. 
And wanton naigies nine or ten. 

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, 
He danc'd wi Jeanie on the down ; 

And lang ere witless Jeanie wist. 

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown 

As in the bosom o' the stream 

The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en ; 

So trembling, pure, was tender love 
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 



ADOWN WINDING NITH I DID WANDER. 



231 



And now she works her mammie's wark. 
And aye slie sij;hi wi' care and pain; 

Yet wist na what her ail miifht be. 
Or what wad mak her weel again. 

But did na Jeanie's heart loup hght. 
And did na joy blink in her ee. 

As Robie tauld a tale o' love 
Ae e'enin on tlie lily lea ? 

Tlie sun was sinking in the west. 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove; 

His cheek to hers he fondly prest. 
And whisper'd thus his tale o' love : 

" Oh Jeanic fair, I loe thee dear ; 

Oh, canst thou think to fancy me ; 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot. 

And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? 

At barn or bjTe thou shalt na drudge. 
Or niiething else to trouble thee ; 

But stray amang the heather-bells, 
And tent the waving corn wi' me." 

Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had nae will to say him na ; 
At length she blush'd a sweet consent. 

And love was aye between them twa. 



3i!rg n' ijji! Bill. 

Air — OhBonnieLasswillyouUeinaBarrach? 

Oh ken ye wha Meg o'the Mill has gotten? 
And ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has 

gotten ? 
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o* siller. 
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. 

The Miller was strappin', the Miller was 

ruddy ; 
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady : 
The Laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl ; — 
She's left the guidfc-llow and taen the churl. 

The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and 
loving ; [moving, 

The Laird did address her wi' matter more 
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle, 
A whip by her side, and a bonuie side-saddle. 

Oh wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ! 
And wae on the love that is fixed on a maden ! 
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle. 
But gie me my lo\e, and a fig for the warl 1 



(Djirn tljr Dnnr ia 3Hp, dIj 



"On! open the door, some pity to show. 
Oh ! open the door to me, oh ! [true, 

Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove 
Oh ! open the door to me, oh 1 

2V 



Canld is the blast upon my pale cheek. 
But caukler thy love for me, oh ; 

The frost that freezes the life at my heart. 
Is nought to my pains frae thee, oh ! 

The wan moon is setting behind the wliitc 
wave. 

And time is setting with me, oh ! 
False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair 

I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, oh !" 

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it 
wide ; 
She sees his pale corse on the plain, oh ! 
"My true love !" she cried, and sauk dowa 
by his side. 
Never to rise again, oh ! 



^nnng %m\t. 

Tune — Bonnie Dundee. 

True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the 
Yarrow, [the Ayr, 

And fair are the maids on the banks o' 
But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding 
river. 

Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : 
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; 

To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain : 
Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover, 

And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 

Oh, fresh is the rose in the gay dewy 
morning. 
And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young 
Jessie 
Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring: 

Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law; 
And still to her charms she alone is a 
stranger — 
Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a'! 



iHhmn minMng Hiil; % iiii IPaiiirr. 

Tune — The Mucking o' Geordic's Byre, 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
To mark the sweet flowers as they spring 

Adown winding Nith I did wander. 
Of riiiUis to muse and to sing. 

CHORUS. 

Awa wi' your belles and your beautie3. 
They never wi' her can compare; 

Whaever has met wi' my I'hiilis, 
Has met wi' the aucen o' the fair. 



232 



BUENS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 



The Jaisy amus'd my fond fancy. 

So artless, so simple, so wilfl ; 
Tliou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, 

For she is simplicity's child. 

The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer. 
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest : 

How fair and how pure is the lily. 
But fairer and purer her breast. 

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, 
They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie : 

Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine. 
It's dew-drop o' diamond her eye. 

Her voice is the song of the morning, 
That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove. 

When Phoebus peeps over the mountains. 
On music, and pleasure, and love. 

But, beauty, how frail and how fleeting — 
The bloom of a fine summer's day ! 

Wliile worth in the mind o' my Philhs 
Will flourish without a decay. 



iatr % E €m. (364) 

Tune — Robin Adair. 

Had I a cave on some wild distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing 
roar; 
There would I weep my woes. 
There seek my lost repose, 
Till grief my eyes should close. 
Ne'er to wake more ! 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare, 
All thy fond-plighted vows — fleeting as air ! 

To thy new lover hie. 

Laugh o'er thy perjury; 

Then in thy bosom try 
What peace is there ' 



is till! /air. (3G5) 

Tune — Robin Adair. 



While larks with the wing, 

Fann'd the pure air. 
Tasting the breathing spring. 

Forth I did fare ; 
Gay the sun's golden eye, 
Peep'd o'er the mountains high ; 
Such thy morn ! did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 



Li each bird's careless song. 

Glad did I share ; 
Wliile yon wild flowers among. 

Chance led me there ; 
Sweet to the opening day, 
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray ; 
Such thy bloom ! did I say, 

Phillis the fair. 
Down in a shady walk. 

Doves cooing were; 
I mark'd the cruel hawk 

Caught in a snare ; 
So kind may fortune be, 
Such make his destiny. 
He who would injure thee, 

Phillis the fair. 



®i} Mu ?Irrara % rljanr'h in f\mt. 

Tune — Allan Water. 

By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove. 

While Phoebus sank beyond Benleddi; (366) 
The winds were whispering thro' the grove. 

The yellow corn was waving ready : 
I listen'd to a lover's sang, 

A nd thought on youthfu' pleasures monyj 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang — 

Oh, dearly do I love thee, Annie 1 
Oh, happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bogle make it eerie ; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, 

The place and time I met my dearie I 
Her head upon my throbbing breast. 

She, sinking, said, "I'm thine for ever!" 
Wliile mony a kiss the seal imprest. 

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. 
The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae. 

The simmer joys the flocks to follow ; 
How cheery thro' her shortening day. 

Is autumn in her sveeds o' yellow ! 
But can they melt the glowing heart, 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure ? 
Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart. 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ? 



i/mu Irt rar take '^\}n in raij Srrast. 

Air — Cauld Kail. 

Come, let me take thee to my breast. 

And pledge we ne'er shall sunder; 
And I shall spurn as vilest dust 

The warld's wealth and grandeur: 
And do I hear my Jeanie own 

That equal transports move her? 
I ask for dearest life alone 

That I may live to love her. 



BEHOLD THE HOUR. 



233 



Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms, 

1 clasp my countless treasure ; 
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share, 

Thau sic a moiuent's pleasure : 
And by thy een sae bonuie blue, 

I swear I'm thine for ever ! 
And on thy lips I seal my vow. 

And break it shall I never I 



Tune — iniislle and I'll come to you, my lad. 

Oh whistle and I'll come to you, my lad. 
Oh whistle and I'll come to you, my lad ; 
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, 
Oh whistle and I'll come to you, my lad. 

But warily tent, when ye come to court me. 
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ; 
Sjme up the back-stile, and let naebody see. 
And come as ye were na comiu' to me. 
And come, &c. 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me. 
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd nae a flie ; 
But steal me a blink o' your bounie black ee. 
Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me. 
Yet look, &c. 

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me. 
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
But court nae anither, tho' jokiu' ye be. 
For fear that she wile your fancy frae me. 
For fear, &c. 



Sainlij Sanir. (367) 

Tune — Dainty Davie. 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers. 
To deck her gay, green spreading bowers ; 
And now come in my hapjiy hours. 
To wander wi' my Davie. 



Meet me on the warlock knowe. 
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie ; 

There I'll spend the day wi' you, 
My ain dear dainty Da\ie. 

The crystal waters round us fa'. 
The merry birds are lovers a'. 
The scented breezes round us blaw. 
A-wandering wi' my Davie. 

When purple morning starts the hare; 
To steal upon her early fare. 
Then thro' the dews I will repair. 
To meet my faithfu' Davie. 



When day, expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws o' nature's rest, 
I flee to his arms I loe best, 
And that's my aiu dear Davie. 



ffirnrc's mxm. (368) 

TvtiE— Hey Tuttie Taitlie. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has afteu led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed. 
Or to victorie ! 

Now's the day, and now's the hour; 
See the front o' battle lour ; 
See approach proud Edward's power- 
Chams and slavery ! 

Wlia will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Let him turn and flee ! 

■Ulia for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw. 
Freeman stand, or Freeman fa'. 
Let him follow me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains I 
By your sous in servile chains ! 
We ^vill drain our dearest veins. 
But they shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low i 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! — 
Let us do, or die ! 



ffirljnlJi ilip ianr. (3gd> 

Tune — Oran Gaoil. 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; 

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart! 
Sever'd from thee, can I survive ? 

But fate has will'd, and we must part. 
I'll often greet this surging swell. 

Yon distant isle will often hail : 
" E'en here I took the last farewell ; 

There latest mark'd her vanish'd saiL" 

Along the solitary shore. 

While flitting sea-fowl round me cry. 
Across the rolling, dashing roar, 

I'll westward turn my wistful eye ; 
Happy thou Indian grove, I'll say. 

Where now my Nancy's path may be I 
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray. 

Oh, tell me, does she muse on me! 



234 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



iEnlJr fang Ipj. 

Should auUl acquaintance be forgot. 
And never brought to mind ? 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 
And days o' lang syne ? 

CHORUS. 

For auld lang syne, my dear. 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. 

For auld lang syne. 

We twa hae run about the braes. 

And pu'd the gowans fine ; 
But we've wandered niony a weary foot, 

Sin auld lang syne. 

We twa hae paidl't i' the bum, 

Frae raornin' sun till dine ; 
But seas between us braid hae roar'd. 

Sin auld lang syne. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere. 

And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught. 

For auld lang syne. 

And surely ye'll be your pint stoup. 

And surely I'll be mine ; 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet 

For auld lang syne. 



120\)m m tilt Snijs? 

Tune — Saw ye my father? 

Where are the joys I have met in the 
morning. 

That danc'd to the lark's early song ? 
Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring. 

At evening the wild woods among ? 

No more a-winding the conrse of yon river, 
And marking sweet flow'rets so fair : 

No more I trace the light footsteps of 
pleasure. 
But sorrow and sad sighing care. 

la it that summer's forsaken our vallies. 
And grim surly winter is near ? 

No, no ! the bees humming round the gay 
roses. 
Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover. 

Yet long, long too well have I known, 
All that has caused this wreck in my bosom. 

Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 
Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal. 

Nor hope dare a comfort bestow : 
Come then, enamour'd and fond of my 
anguish. 

Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. 



Cljait Ijast f rft mi! (Bntr. 

Tune — Fee him, Father. 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, thou hast left 
me ever, [me ever ; 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, thou hast left 

Aiten hast thou vow'd that death only should 
us sever, 

Now thou'st left thy lass for aye — I maun 
see thee never, Jamie, 
I'll see thee never. 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, thou hast me 
forsaken, [forsaken ; 

Tliou hast me forsaken, Jamie, thou hast me 

Thou canst love anither jo, while my heart is 
breaking : 

Soon my weary een I'll close — never mail 
to waken, Jamie, 
Ne'er mair to waken. 



Drliiiirli §mm, lljp ^tllrasnrf. 

Tune — The Collier's Bonnie Lassie. 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 
The fickle Fair can give thee. 

Is but a fairy treasure — 
Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 

The billows on the ocean. 

The breezes idly roaming. 
The clouds' uncertain motion. 

They are but types of woman. 

Oh ! art thou not ashamed 

To doat upon a feature ? 
If man thou would'st be named, 

Despise the silly creature. 

Go, find an honest fellow ! 

Good claret set before thee : 
Hold on till thou art mellow. 

And then to bed in glory. 



f Ijinp S am, mii /aitljfiil /air. 

TUNB — Liggeram Cosh [the Quaker's wife}. 

Thine am I, my faithful fair. 

Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 
Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 

Ev'ry ro\ing fancy. 

To thy bosom lay my heart, 
There to throb and languish : 

Tlio' despair had wrung its core. 
That would heal its anguish. 



ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 



235 



Take away tliese rosy lips. 
Rich with biihuy treasure : 

Turn away thine eyes of love, 
IjCSt I die with pleasure. 

What is life when wanting love? 

Night without a morning : 
Love's the cloudless summer sun. 

Nature gay adorning. 



3ilr[ ?|iDU5p, jilanri?. 

Tune — My Jo Janet. 

"Hdsband, husband, cease your strife. 

Nor longer idly rave, sir ; 
Tho' I am your wedded wife. 

Yet I am not your slave, sir." 

" One of two must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Is it man, or woman, say. 

My spouse, Nancy ?" 

"If 'tis still the lordly word. 

Service and obedience ; 
I'll desert my sov'reign lord, 

And so good-bye allegiance !" 

" Sad will I be, so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy, 
Yet I'll try to make a shift. 

My spouse, Nancy." 

" My poor heart then break it must. 

My last hour I'm near it : 
Wlien you lay me in the dust, 

Thiuk, think how you will bear it." 

"I will hope and trust in heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy, 
Strength to bear it will be given. 

My spouse, Nancy." 

" Well, sir, from the silent dead. 

Still I'll try to daunt you ; 
Ever round your midnight bed 

Horrid sprites shall haunt you." 

* I'll wed another like my dear, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Then all hell will fly for fear. 

My spouse, Nancy." 



3;{iB Saiiks nf fep. 

Tune— r/ie Banks of Cree. 

Here is the glen, and here the bower. 
All underneath the birchen shade ; 

The village-bell has toU'd the hour. 
Oh, what can stay my lovely maid ? 



'Tis not ]\Iaria's whispering call ; 

'Tis but the balmy-breatiiiiig gale, 
Mix'd with some warbler's dying fall. 

The dewy stars of eve to hail. 

It is Maria's voice I hear ! — 

So calls the woodlark in the grove. 

His little faithful mate to cheer ! 
At once 'tis music and 'tis love. 

And art thou come ? — and art thou true ? 

Oh welcome, dear to love and me 
And let us all our vows renew. 

Along the flowery banks of Cree. 



(Da llii; Iras anil /ar Sraaij. 

Tune— O'er the hills, ^-c. 

How can my poor heart be glad. 
When absent from my sailor lad ? 
How can I the thought forego, 
He's on the seas to meet the foe ? 
Let me wander, let me rove, 
Still my heart is with my love ; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are with him that's far away. 



On the seas and far away. 
On stormy seas and faraway; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are aye with him that's far away. 

When in summer's noon I faint. 
As weary flocks around me pant. 
Haply in the scorching sun 
My sailor's thund'ring at his gun ; 
Bullets spare my only joy ! 
Bullets, spare my darling boy ! 
Fate, do with me what you may, 
Spare but him that's far away ! 

At the starless midnight hour. 

When winter rules with boundless power; 

As the storms the forest tear, 

And tliunders rend the howling air. 

Listening to the doubling roar. 

Surging on the rocky shore. 

All I can — I weep and pray. 

For his weal that's far away. 

Peace, thy olive wand extend. 

And bid wild war his ravage end, 

Man with brother man to meet. 

And as a brotlier kindly greet : 

Tiien may Heaven with prosperous galea, 

Fill my sailor's welcome sails. 

To my arms their charge convey. 

My dear lad that's far away. 



231 



BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



€&' iljB ^nrars tn tljE IRnnmrs. 

CHORUS. 

Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
Ca' them where tlie heather grows, 
Ca' them where the buriiie rows. 
My bonnie dearie. 

Hark the mavis' evening sang 
Sounding Clouden's woods amang ; 
Then a-faulding let us gang, 
My bounie dearie. 

We'll gae down by Clouden side 
Thro' the hazels spreading wide, 
O'er the waves that sweetly glide 
To the moou sae clearly. 

Yonder Clouden's silent towers, 
Where at moonshine, midnight hours. 
O'er the dewy bending flowers, 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near. 
My bonuie dearie. 

J'air and lovely as thou art. 
Thou hast stown my very heart; 
I can die — but canna part. 
My bonuie dearie. 

■V^Tiile waters wimple to the sea ; 
AVhile day blinks in the lift sae hie ; 
I'ill clay-cauld death shall bliu' my ee. 
Ye shall be my dearie. 



Tune — Omujli's Lock, 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets. 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
Bewitchingly o'er-arching 

Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. 
Her smiling, sae wiling. 

Would make a wretch forget his woe : 
What pleasure, what treasure, 

Unto these rosy lips to grow : 
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, 

When first her bonnie face I saw. 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm. 

She says she loes me best of a'. 

Like harmony her motion ; 

Her pretty ancle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion. 

Wad make a saint forget the sky. 
Sae warming, sae cliarming. 

Her faultless form and graceful air ; 
Ilk feature — auld nature 

Declared tlwt she could do nae mair. 



Hers are the willing chains o' love. 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm. 

She says she loes me best of a'. 
Let others love the city. 

And gaudy show at sunny noon; 
Gie me the lonely valley. 

The dewy eve, and rising moon 
Fair beaming, and streaming, 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling. 

The amorous thrush concludes his sang 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw. 
And hear my vows o' truth and love. 

And say thou loes me best of a' ! 



lam qt mij ^^Ijilli)? 

Tune — TMien she cam hen she bobhit. 
Oh, saw ye ray dear, my Philly ? 
Oh, saw ye my dear, my Philly ? 
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love^ 

She winna come hame to her Willie. 
Wliat says she, my dearest, my Philly ? 
What says she, my dearest, my Philly ? 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, 

And for ever disowns thee, her Willy. 
Oh, had I ne'er seen thee, my Philly ! 
Oh, had I ne'er seen thee, my Philly ! 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, 

Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy. 



^m fnng an!r Drrarii is llji; Jligjit? 

(370) 
Tune — Cauld kail in Aberdeen. 
How long and dreary is the night 

When I am frae my dearie ? 

I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 

Tho' I we're ne'er sae weary. 

CHORUS. 

For oh ! her lanely nights are lang, 

And oh ! her dreams are eerie. 
And oh ! her widow'd heart is sair. 
That's absent frae her dearie. 
When I think on the lightsome days 

I spent wi' thee, my dearie. 
And now what seas between us roar. 
How can I be but eerie ? 
For oh ! &c. 
How slow ye move, ye heavy hours I 

The joyless day, how dreary I 
It was na sae ye glinted by. 
When I was wi' my dearie. 
For oh 1 &c. 




Ain.D T^r^BlN r,Ti AY 



ray fniii"! <-'.\i.f|ui wrk- uiv iu'''li''i' •■.■nilTin sjmi,- 
lt6il'i day anBnij^lit, tiii. Qieir lirpa.3 I cbii'daa wixL 



FAEEWELL THOU STREAM THAT "WINDING FLOWS. 



237 



ttt nnt Wmm I'rr Cnmjilain. 

Tune — Duncan Cray. 

Let not woman e'er complain 

Of inconstancy iu love ; 
Let not woman e'er complain 

Fickle man is apt to rove. 

Look abroad through Nature's range. 
Nature's mighty law is change ; 
Ladies, would it not be strange, 
Man shoidd then a monster prove? 

Mark the winds, and mark the skies; 

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow : 
Sun and moon but set to rise. 

Round and round the seasons go, 

"WTiy then ask of silly man 
To oppose great Nature's plan ? 
We'll be constant while we can — 
You can be no more, you know. 



ilnfsi fUljiiir, nr aUak'st lljnu? (37i) 

Tune — Deil talc the wars. 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest crea- 

Rosy morn now lifts his eye, [ture ? 

Numbering ilka bud, which Nature 

Waters wi' the tears o' joy : 

Now thro' the leafy woods. 

And by the reeking floods. 
Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray : 

The lintwhite in his bower 

Chants o'er the breathing flower. 

The lav'rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy. 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. 
Phoebus gilding the brow o' morning. 

Banishes ilk darksome shade. 
Nature gladd'ning and adorning ; 

Such to me my lovely maid. 

When absent from my fair. 

The murky shades o' care 
With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky ; 

But when in beauty's light. 

She meets my ravish'd sight, 

When through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart, 
Tia then I wake to life, to hght, and joy. 



Bij Cljlnris, tiiarit Ijnra Smn Ijjp dFrniirs. 

Tune — My lodging is on the cold ground. 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves. 

The primrose banks how fair ; 
The balmy gales awake the flowers. 

Ami wavt! thy flaxen hair. 



Tlie lav'rock shuns the palace gay. 

And o'er the cottage sings : 
For nature smiles as sweet, I ween. 

To shepherds as to kings. 
Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 

In lordly lighted ha' : 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Blythe, in the birken shaw. 
The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 
But are their hearts as light as ours 

Beneath the milk-white thorn ? 
The shepherd, in the flowery glen. 

In shepherd's phrase will woo : 
The courtier tells a finer tale. 

But is his heart as true ? 
These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 

That spotless breast o' thine : 
The courtier's gems may witness love^ 

But 'tis ua love like mine. 



It mas iljB (lliarniiiig Slnntfj iif 3Haq. 

(372) 
Tune — Dainty Davie. 
It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay. 
One morning, by the break of day. 

The youthful, charming Chloe,— 
From peaceful slumber she arose. 
Girt on her mantle and her hose. 
And o'er the flow'ry mead she goes, — 

The youtliful, charming Cliloe. 

CHORUS. 

Lovely was she by the dawn. 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloek 
Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, 
The youtliful, charming Chloe. 
Tlie feather'd people, you might see 
Persh'd all around on every tree, 
In notes of sweetest melody. 

They hail the charming Chloe ; 

Till, i)ainting gay the eastern skies, 

The glorious sun began to rise, 

Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyes 

Of youthful, charming Chloe. 

Lovely was she, &c. 



/arriiirll, tlinn Itrram lljat tiOin&ing 
/Inins. 

Tune — Nancy's to the greenwood gone. 
Farewell, thou stream that winding flows 

Around Eliza's dwelling ! 
Oh mem'ry ! spare the cruel throes 

Within my bosom swelling : 



238 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Coiiflemn'.i to drag a hopeless chain. 

And yet in secret languish. 
To feel a fire in ev'ry vein, 

Nor dare disclose my anguish. 
Love's veriest WTetch, unseen, unknown^ 

I fain my griefs would cover : 
The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan. 

Betray the hapless lover. 
I know thou doom'st me to despair. 

Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me ; 
But, oh ! Eliza, hear one prayer. 

For pity's sake, forgive me ! 
The music of thy voice I heard. 

Nor wist while it enslaved me ; 
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 

TUl fears no more had sav'd me. 
Th' unwary sailor thus aghast. 

The wheeling torrent viewing, 
'Jlid circling horrors sinks at last 

In overwhelming ruin. 



f asisiE mi' Ijjp lint-mljitE fnrki. 

TcNE — Rothiemurche's Rant. 

CHORUS. 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 

Bonnie lassie, artless lassie. 

Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocka^ 

Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

Now Nature deeds the flowery lea. 

And a' is young and sweet like thee : 

Oh, wilt thou share its joj' wi' me. 

And say thou'lt be my dearie O ? 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, &c. 
And when the welcome simmer-shower 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower. 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower 
At sultry noon, my dearie O. 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, &c. 
Wlien Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, 
The weary shearer's ham e ward way, 
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray. 
And talk o' love, ray dearie O. 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, &c. 
And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest. 
Enclasped to my faithful breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie O. 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, Ac. 

I^jilln anH Xnillii. 

Tone— r/(e Soiu's Tail 

WILLY. 

Oh Philly, happy be that day 
'Yhen roving through the gather'd hay. 
My youtlifu' heart was stowii away. 
And by thy charms, my Philly. 



PIIILLY. 

Oh Willy, aye I bless the grove 
Where first I owu'd my maiden love, 
Whilst thou didst pledge the powers above 
To be my ain dear ^Villy. 

WILLY. 

As songsters of the early year 
Are ilka day mair sweet to hear. 
So ilka day to me mair dear 
And charming is my Philly. 

PHILLY. 

As on the briar the budding rose 
Still richer breathes and fairer blows. 
So in my tender bosom grows 
The love I bear my Willy. 

WILLY. 

The milder sun and bluer sky. 
That crown my harvest cares wi' joy. 
Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye 
As is a sight o' Philly. 

PHILLY. 

The little swallow's wanton wing, 
Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring. 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring. 
As meeting o' my Willy. 

WILLY. 

The bee that thro' the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the opening flower, 
Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, 
Upon the lips o' Philly. 

PIIILLY. 

The woodbine in the dewy weet. 
When evening shades in silence meet. 
Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet 
As is a kiss o' Willy. 

WILLY. 

Let fortune's wheel at random rin. 
And fools may tyne, and knaves may win; 
My thoughts are a' bound up in ane. 
And that's my ane dear Philly. 

PHILLY. 

What's a' the joys that gowd can gieP 
I care nae wealth a single flie ; 
The lad I love's the lad for me. 
And that's my ain dear Willy. 



Cnntrntrit mi' f ittli. 

Tune — Lmnps o' Pudding. 
Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair. 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
I gie them a skelp as they're creepin' alang, 
Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish 
sang. 



MY NANNIE'S AAVA. 



239 



I whilea claw the elbow o' troublesom 

thought ; 
But man is a sodger, and life is a faught : 
My mirth and good humour are coin in my 

pouch. 
And ray freedom's my lairdship nae monarch 

dare touch. 
A towTimond o' trouble, should that be my fa', 
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a' : 
When at the blythe end of our journey at 

last, [past ? 

Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has 
Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on 

her way : [gae : 

Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade 
Come ease, or come travail: come pleasure, 

or pain, [again !" 

My warst word is — " Welcome, and welcome 



Cau'st llinir tuut mc Cjiiis, nii} ISaiq. 

(373) 
TvuE— Roy's Wife. 

CHORUS. 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Well thou know'st my aching heart. 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity? 

Is this thy plighted, fond regard. 
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy ? 

Is this thy faithful swain's reward — 
An a£hing, broken heart, my Katy? 

Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! 

Thou may'st find those will love thee dear — 
But not a love hke mine, my Katy. 



/nr a' Qllint, aiili a' itliat. 

Is there, for honest poverty. 

That hangs his head, and a' that ? 
The coward slave we pass him by. 

We dare be poor for a' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toil's obscure, and a' that. 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, (374) 

The man's the goud for a' that. 

What tho' on hamely fare we dine. 

Wear hoddin grey, and a' that ; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 

A man's a man for a' that ; 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 
The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 

l» king o' men for a' that. 



Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; 
Tlio' hundreds worship at his word, 

lie's but a coof for a' that : 
For a' that, and a' that. 

His riband, star, and a' that. 
The man of independent mind. 

He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that : 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Guid faith he maunna fa' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Their dignities, and a' that. 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth. 

Are higher ranks than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may. 

As come it will for a' that. 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth. 

May bear the gree, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 

It's coming yet, for a' that. 
That man to man, the warld o'er; 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 



3Hij Jdannif's 5lnia. 

Tune — There'll never he peace, §t. 

Now in her green mantle blythe nature 
arrays, [braes. 

And Ustens the lambkins that bleat o'er the 

While birds warble welcome in ilka green 
shaw ; 

But to me it's deUghtless — my Nannie's awa. 

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands 

adorn. 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the mom ; 
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they 

blaw, 
Tliey mind me o' Nannie — and Nannie's awa. 

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of 
the lawn, ' [dawn. 

The shepherd to warn o' the grey-breaking 

And thou mellow mavis that hails the 
night-fa'. 

Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa. 

Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and 

grey, 
And soothe me wi' tidings o nature s decay ; 
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving 

snaw, 
Alaue can delight me — now Nannit 's awa. 



22 



240 



BURNS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 



totgiThiirti Wut (375) 

Tune — Crmcjiehurn wood. 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn, 
And blythe awakes the morrow ; 

But a' the pride o' spring's return 
Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 

I see the flowers and spreading treei, 
I hear the wild birds singing; 

But what a weary wight can please. 
And care his bosom wringing? 

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart. 

Yet dare na for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart. 

If I conceal it langer. 

If thou refuse to pity me. 

If thou shalt love auither> 
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree. 

Around my grave they'll wither. (376) 



(Dji f assie art lljan ^krping i;rt? 

Tune — Let me in this ane Night. 

Oh lassie art thou sleeping yet? 
Or art thou wakin', I would wit ? 
For love has bound me hand and foot, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 



Oh let me in this ane night. 
This ane, ane, ane night ; 

For pity's sake this aue night. 
Oh rise and let me in, jo ! 

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, 
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet ; 
Tak pity on my weary feet, 
And shield me frae the rain, jo. 

The bitter blast that round me blaws 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause 
Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 

Reply to the foregoing. 

Oh tell na me o' wind and rain. 
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain; 
Gae back tiie gait ye cam again, 
I wiuna let you in, jo I 



I tell you now this ane night. 
This ane, ane, ane night ; 

And ance for a' this ane night, 
I wiuna let you in, jo. 



The snellest blast, at mirkest hours. 
That round the pathless wand'rer poiua. 
Is nocht to what poor she endures 
That's trusted faithless man, jo.' 

The sweetest flower that deck'd the me&d. 
Now trodden like the vilest weed ; 
Let simple maid the lesson read. 
The weird may be her ain, jo. 

The bird that charm'd his summer- day. 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
Let witless, trusting, woman say 
How aft her fate's the same, jo. 



TUNE- 



%.Wm in iljE l^nMarlt. 

-Where'll honnie Ann lie ? or, LocS. 
Eroch Side. 



Oh stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay. 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray, 
A hapless lover courts thy lay. 
Thy soothing, fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part. 
That I may catch thy melting art : 
For surely that wad touch her heart, 
'Wha. kills me wi' disdaining. 

Say, was thy little mate unkind. 
And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
Oh ! nocht but love and sorrow join'd. 
Sic notes o' woe could wauken. 

Tliou tells o' never-ending care : 
O' speechless grief, and dark despair ; 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair. 
Or my poor heart is broken ! 



6z (^jilnris Mug 111. 

Tune — Aye wakin O. 



Long, long the night, 
HeavT^ comes the morrow. 

While my soul's delight 
Is on her bed of sorrow. 

Can I cease to care, 

Can I cease to languish. 

While my darling fair 
Is on the couch of anguish? 

Every hope is fled. 

Every fear is terror; 
Slumber even I dread. 

Every dream is horror. 



OH THIS US KO MY AIN LASSIE. 



241 



Hear me, Pow'rs divine ! 

Oh ! in pity liear ine ! 
Take aught else of mine, 

But my Chloris spare me ! 



Cljrir (Pranrs n' Irarrt Mi\iilt. 

Tune — Humours of Glen. 

Their ^oves o' sweet myrtle let foreign 

lands reckon, [perfume ; 

Where bright-beaming summers exalt the 

Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green 

breckan, [broom. 

Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow 

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom 

bowers, [unseen : 

■\Vhere the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly 

For there, lightly tripping amang the wild 

flowers, [Jean. 

A-listeiiing the linnet, aft wanders my 

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny 

rallies. 

And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 

Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the 

proud palace, [and slave ! 

What are they ? — the haunt of the tyrant 

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling 

fountains, 

Tlie brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 

lie wanders as free as the winds of his 

mountains, [his Jean ! 

Save love's willing fetters — the chains o' 



imn Crel m llj? '^h: ill. 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGIvISH SONG. 

Tune — John Anderson my Jo. 

How cruel are the parents, 

A\Tio riches only prize : 
And to the wealthy booby. 

Poor woman sacrifice ! 
Meanwhile the hapless daughter 

lias but a choice of strife ; — 
To shun a tyrant father's hate. 

Become a wretched wife. 

The rav'ning hawk pursuing, 

The trembling dove thus flies 
To shun impelling ruin 

Awhile her pinion tries : 
Till of escape despairing. 

No shelter or retreat. 
She trusts the ruthless falconer, 

And drops beneath his feet. 



'Umas iia jirr Snnnii Sin? 6b mas 
nttj IRuiii. 

Tune — Laddie, lie near me. 
'TwAS na her bonnie blue ee was my ruin; 
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 
'Twas the dear smile when naebody did 
mind us, [o' kindness. 

'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance 
Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do 1 fear that despair maun abide me ; 
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever. 
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 
Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest. 
And thou hast plighted me love the dearest I 
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter. 
Sooner the sun in lus motion would falter. 



3}Iark pn ^^nniii nf C^nstltj /asliinii. 

Tune — Deil tak the Wars. 
Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion. 

Round the wealthy, titled bride : 
But when compar'd with real passion. 

Poor is all that princely pride. 

What are the showy treasures ? 

What are the noisy pleasures ? 
The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art : 

The polish'd jewel's blaze 

May draw the wond'ring gaze. 

And courtly grandeur bright 

The fancy may delight. 
But never, never can come near the heart. 

But did you see my dearest Chloris, 

In simplicity's array ; 
Ijovely as yonder sweet op'ning Sower is, 

Shrinking from the gaze of day. 

Oh then the heart alarming, 

And all resistless charming. 
In Love's delightful fetters she chains the 
willing soul ! 

Ambition would disown 

The world's imperial crown. 

Even Avarice would deny 

His worshipp'd deity. 
And feel thro' ev'ry vein Love's raptures roIL 



(J^lj lljis 15 nn mij 5lin Xassif, 

Tune — This is no my ain House. 

CHORUS. 
Oh this is no my ain lassie. 

Fair tho' the lassie be ! 

Oh %veel ken I my ain lassie. 

Kind love is in her ee. 



I 



242 



BURNS' S POETICAL WORKS. 



I see a form, I see a face, 

Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : 

It wants, to me, the witching grace. 

The kind love that's in her ee. 
She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, 
And lang has had ray heart in thrall ; 
And aye it charms my very saul. 

The kind love that's in her ee. 
A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 
To steal a blink, by a' unseen ; 
But gleg as light are lovers' een. 

When kind love is in the ee. 
It may escape the courtly sparks, 
It may escape the learned clerks ; 
But weel the watching lover marks 

The kind love that's in her ee. 



SIqiu #pring Ijas Clali tjjc §xui in foin. 

(377) 

Now spring has clad the grove in green. 

And strew'd the lea wi' flowers : 
The furrow'd, waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers ; 
While ilka thing in nat\ire join 

Their sorrows to forego. 
Oh why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of woe ! 
The trout within yon winipling bum 

Glides swift— a silver dart ; 
And safe beneath the shady thorn 

Delies the angler's art. 
My life was ance that careless stream, 

That wanton trout was I ; 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam, 

Has scorch'd my fountains diry. 
The little flow'ret's peaceful lot. 

In yonder cliff that grows, 
Wliich, save the linnet's flight, I wot, 

Nae ruder visit knows. 
Was mine ; till love has o'er me past. 

And blighted a' my bloom. 
And now beneath the with'ring blast 

lily youth and joy consume. 
The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs. 

And climbs the early sky. 
Winnowing blythe her dewy \vings 

In morning's rosy eye. 
As little reck'd I sorrow's power. 

Until the flowery snare 
O' witching love, in luckless hour. 

Made me the thrall o' care. 
Ob, had my fate been Greenland snows. 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes, 
So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! 



The wretch whase doom is, " hope nae mair," 
What tongue his woes can tell ! 

Within whase bosom, save despair, 
Nae kinder spirits dwell. 



(J>li ^mm mas unit t.m] ®rht. 

Oh bonnie was yon rosy brier. 

That blooms so far frae haunt o' man; 
And bonnie she, and ah ! how dear ! 

It shaded frae the e'enin' sun. 

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew. 

How pure amang the leaves sae green ; 

But purer was the lover's vow 

They witnessed in their shade yestreen. 

All in its rude and prickly bower. 

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair ; 

But love is far a sweeter flower 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless wild and wimpling burn, 
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 

And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn, 
Its joys and griefs alike resign. 



/nrlEttt rail tmt, im (IPnnrfnrt ntar. 

Tune — Let me in this ane Night. 

Forlorn my love, no comfort near. 
Far, far from thee, I wander here ; 
Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
At which I most repine, love. 

CHORUS. 

Oh wert thou, love, but near me ; 
But near, near, near me : 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me. 
And mingle sighs with mine, love. 

Around me scowls a wintry sky. 
That blasts each bud of hope and joy ; 
And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 
Save in those arms of thine, love. 

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part. 
To poison fortune's ruthless dart- 
Let me not break thy faithful heart, 
And say that fate is mine, love. 

But dreary tho' the moments fleet. 
Oh let me think we yet shall meetl 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 



JESSY. 



243 



Hitj fnr H Ias3 m* a furljEr. 

Tune — Balinamona ora. 

A.WA wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms. 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your 

arms. 
Oh, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms. 
Oh, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. 



Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, then hey 

for a lass wi' a tocher. 
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher — the nice 

yellow guineas for me. 

Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that 

blows, 
And withers the faster, the faster it grows : 
But the rapturous charm o' the bounie green 

Lnowes, [yowes. 

Ilk spring they're new deckit wi bonnie white 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has 
blest, [possest ; 

The brightest o' beauty may cloy when 

But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie 
imprest, [carest. 

The langer ye hae them, the mair they're 



fast 3Hai] a Srara X^nnrr. 

Tune — The Lothian Lassie. 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang 
glen, 
And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; 
I said there was naething I hated like men — 
The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, beheve 

me. 
The de\ice gae wi'm to believe me. 

He spaK o' the darts o' my bonnie black een. 
And vow'd for my love he was dying ; 

I said he might die when he liked for Jean — 
The Lord forgie me fnr lying, for lying, 
The Lord forgie me for lying ! 

A well-stocked inailcn, himsel for the laird. 
And marriage aff-hand, were his protfers : 

I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd, 
But thought I might hae waur offers, 

waur offers. 
But thought I might hae waur offers. 

But what wad ye think ? — in a fortnight or 
less, 
Tlie deil tak his taste to gae near her ! 
He up the lang loan to my black cousin 
Bess (378), [could bear her. 

Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. 
Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. 

22 



But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, 
I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, 

And wha but my fine fickle lover was there ! 
I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 
I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock. 

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, 
Ix;st neibors might say I was saucy ; 

My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink. 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear 

lassie. 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 

I s))ier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet. 
Gin she had recovered her hearin', 

And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl't 
feet, [a-swearin'. 

But, heavens ! how he fell a-swearin'. 
But, heavens ! how he fell a-swearin'. 

He begged, for guidsake, I wad be his wife. 
Or else I wad kill him wi, sorrow : 

So e'en to preserve the poor body in life, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to- 
morrow, 
I thiuk I maun wed him to-morrow. 



/ragrarnt. 

Tune — The Caledonian Hunt's Delight. 

Why, why tell thy lover. 

Bliss he never must enjoy ? 
Why, why undeceive him. 

And give all his hopes the lie ? 

Oh why, while fancy, raptur'd, slumbers, 
Chloris, Chloris all the theme. 

Why, why wouldst thou cruel. 
Wake thy lover from his dream ? 



f rssij. (379) 

CHORUS. 

Here's a health to ane I loe dear ! 
Here's a health to ane I loe dear ! [meet. 
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lover's 
And soft as their parting tear — Jessy ! 

Altho' thou maun never be mine, 

Altho' even hope is denied : 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing. 

Then aught in the world beside — Jessy 1 

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day. 
As hopeless, I muse on thy charms ; 

But welcome the dream o' sweet slumljcr, 
For then I am lock't in thy arms — Jessy I 



2 4 



BUENS'S POETICAL "WORKS. 



I guess by the dear angel smile, 
I guess by the love rolling ee ; 

But why urge the tender confession, 
'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree- 
Jessy ! 



/airrst Mmi nn Drann Sanks. 

Tune — Rothiemurche. 

CHORUS. 

Fairest maid on Devon banks. 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 

Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 

And smile as thou were wont to do. 

Full well thou know'st I love thee dear, 
Could'st thou to malice lend an ear ? 
Oh, did not love exclaim " Forbear, 
Nor use a faithfu' lover so !" 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair. 
Those wonted smiles, oh let me share ! 

And, by thy beauteous self I swear. 
No love but thine my heart shall know. 



iaiifeDtnt Ml (380) 

Oh once I lov'd a bonnie lass. 

Ay, and I love her still ; 
And whilst that honour warms my breast, 

I'll love my handsome Nell. 

As bonnie lasses I hae seen. 

And mony full as braw ; 
But for a modest gracefu' mieu. 

The like I never saw. 

A bonnie lass, I will confess. 

Is pleasant to the ee. 
But without some better qualities. 

She's no the lass for me. 

But Nelly's looks are blythe and sweet, 

And, what is best of a'. 
Her reputation is complete. 

And fair without a flaw. 

She dresses aye sae clean and neat. 

Both decent and genteel : 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars ony dress look weel. 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 
May slightly touch the heart ; 

But it's innocence and modesty 
That polishes the dart. 

•Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 

'Tis this enchants my soul; 
For absolutely in my breast 

She reigns without control. 



JHij ^Fatjirr tnas a /arinpr. (ssi) 

Tune — The Weaver and his shuttle, 0. 

My father was a farmer upon the Carrick 
border, O, [order, O ; 

And carefully he bred me in decency and 

lie bade me act a manly part, though I had 
ne'er a farthing, O ; 

For without an honest manly heart, no man 
■was worth regarding, O. 

Then out into the world, my course I did 
determine, O ; 

Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to bo 
great was charming, O : i 

My talents they were not the worst, nor yet 
my education, O ; 

Resolv'd was I, at least to try, to mend my 
situation, O. 

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted 
fortune's favour, O ; 

Some cause unseen still stept between, to 
frustrate each endeavour, O. 

Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd ; some- 
times by friends forsaken, O; 

And when my hope was at the top, I still 
was worst mistaken, O. 

Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, with 
fortune's vain delusion, O, 

I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and 
came to this conclusion, O — 

The past was bad, and the future hid; its 
good or ill untried, O ; 

But the present hour was in my pow'r, and 
so I would enjoy it, O. 

No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor per- 
son to befriend me, O ; 

So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and 
labour to sustain me, O : 

To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my 
father bred me early, O ; 

For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match 
for fortune fairly, O. 

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro* 
life I'm doom'd to wander, O, 

Till down my weary bones I lay, in everlas- 
ting slumber, O. 

No view nor care, but shun whate'er might 
breed me pain or sorrow, O ! 

I live to-day as well's I may, regardless of to- 
morrow, O. 

But cheerful still, I am as well, as a monarch 
in a palace, O, 

Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, 
with all her wonted malice, O : 

I make indeed my daily bread, but ne'er can 
make it farther, O ; 

But, as daily bread is all I need, I do not 
much regard her, O. 



HER FLOWING LOCKS. 



245 



When sometimes by my labour I earn a 

little mony, O, 
Some uuforseen misfortune comes gen'rally 

upon nie, O : 
Jfischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my 

good-natur'd fully, ; 
•But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll 

ne'er be melancholy, O. 

All you who follow wealth and power with 

unremitting ardour, O, 
The more in this you look for bliss, you leave 

your view the farther, O : 
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations 

to adore you, O, 
A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer 

before you, O. 



Up in ilji! Bnrning rarltj. 

Tune — Cold blows the Wind. 

CHORUS. 

Up in the morning's no for me. 

Up in the morning early : 
■When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west. 

The drift is driving sairly; 
Sae louu and shrill I hear the blast, 

I'm sure its winter fairlj'. 

The birds sit chittering in the thorn, 
A' day they fare but sparely ; 

And lang's the night frae e'en to morn — 
I'm sure it's winter fairly. 



irti, iljp iDiiDtn Billrr. 

Tune— r/(e Dusly Miller. 

Hey, the dusty miller. 

And his dusty coat ; 

He will win a shilling, 

Or he spend a groat. 

Dusty was the Coat, 

Dusty was the colour. 
Dusty was the kiss 
That 1 got frae the raUler. 

Hey, the dusty miller. 
And his dusty sack ; 
Leeze me on the calling 
Fills the dusty peck — • 
Fills the dusty peck. 

Brings the dusty siller ; 
I wad gie my coatie 
For the dusty miller. 



Unliiii. (382) 

Tune — Dainty Davie, 

There was a lad was bom in Kyle, 
But whatna day o' whatna style 
I doubt it's hardly worth the while 
To be sae nice wi' Robin. 
Robin was a rovin' boy, 

Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin'; 
Robin was a rovin' boy, 
Rantin' rovin' Robin I 

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane 
Was five-and-twenty days begun, 
'Twas then a blast o' Janwar' win' 
Blew hansel in on Robin. 

The gossip keekit in his loof. 
Quo scho, wha lives will see the proof. 
This waly boy will be nae coof ; 
I think we'll ca' him Robin. 

He'll hae misfortunes great and sma'. 
But aye a heart aboon them a'; 
He'll be a credit till us a' — 
We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 

But sure as three times three mak nine. 
I see by ilka score and line. 
This chap will dearly like our kin'. 
So leeze me on thee, Robin. 



f !jb Srlls nf Stlaiirljlinr. (38'3) 

In JIauchline there dwells six proper young 
belles, [hood a'. 

The pride of the place and its neighbour- 
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would 
gfues3, 
In Loii'on or Paris they'd gotten it a*. 
Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine. 
Miss Smith she has wit, and !Miss Betty 
is braw, [Morton ; 

There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss 
But Armour's the jewel for me o' them 
a'. (384) 



2Jrr /Inniing Inrks, (3S5) 

Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, 
Adowu her neck and bosom hing ; 
How sweet unto that breast to cling, 

And round that neck entwine her ! 
Her lips are roses wat wi' dew. 
Oh, what a feast her bonnie mou' I 
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, 

A crimson still diviner. 



24fi 



BUKNS'S POETICAL WORKS 



iliE Inns nf m IRillip. (386) 

Tune — Sliawuhoy. 
Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, 

To follow the noble vocation ; 
Your thrifty old mother has scarce such 
another 

To sit in that honoured station. 
I've little to say, but only to pray, 

As praying's the ton of your fashion ; 
A prayer from the muse you well may excuse, 

'Tis seldom her favourite passion. 
Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the 
tide. 

Who marked each element's border ; 
Who formed this frame with beneficent aim. 

Whose sovereign statute is order ; 
Within this dear mansion may wayward 
contention 

Or withered envy ne'er enter ; 
May secrecy round be the mystical bound. 

And brotherly love be the centre. 



Tune — Magfjy Lauder. 
I MARRIED with a scolding wife. 

The fourteenth of November; 
She made me weary of my life. 

By one unruly member. 
Long did I bear the heavy yoke^ 

And many griefs attended ; 
But, to my comfort be it spoke. 

Now, now her life is ended. 
We lived full one-and-twenty years, 

A man and wife together ; 
At length from me her course she steer' d. 

And gone I know not whither : 
Would I could guess, I do profess, 

I speak, and do not flatter, 
Of all the women in the world, 

I never could come at her. 
Her body is bestowed well, 

A handsome grave does hide her; 
But sure her soul is not in hell. 

The deil would ne'er abide her ! 
I rather think she is aloft, 

And imitating thunder ; 
For why ? — methinks I hear her voice 

Teering the clouds asunder ! 



^, a^jiari; Mil iina M ? (386) 

Tune — Bonnie Dundee. 
O, WHARE did you get that hauver meal ban- 
nock ? 
Oh silly blind body, oh dinna ye see ? 



I gat it frae a brisk young sodger laddie. 

Between Saint Johnston and bonuie Bun- 
dee, 
Oh, gin I saw the laddie that gae me't ! 

Aft has he doudled me upon his knee ; 
May heaven protect my bonnie Scots laddie. 

And send him safe hame to his babie and 
me ! 
My blessin's upon thy sweet wee lippie. 

My blessin's upon thy bonnie ee-bree ! 
Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger 
laddie, 

Thou's aye the dearer and dearer to me ! 
But I'll big a bower on yon boiuiie banks. 

Where Tay rins wimpliu' by sae clear ; 
And I'll deed thee in the tartan sae line. 

And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear. 



^jirr? mas a f ass. 

Tune — Duncan Davison. 

There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, 

And she held o'er the moors to spin ; 
Tliere was a lad that follow'd her. 

They ca'd him Duncan Davison. 
The moor was driegh, and Meg was skeigh. 

Her favour Duncan cotdd ua win ; 
For wi' the rock she wad him knock. 

And aye she shook the temper-pin. 
As o'er the moor they lightly foor, 

A burn was clear, a glen was green, 
Upon the banks they eas'd their shanks. 

And aye she set the wheel between : 
But Duncan swore a haly aith 

That Meg should be a bride the morn. 
Then ]\Ieg took up her spinnin' graith. 

And flung them a' out o'er the burn. 
We'll big a house — a wee, wee house, 

And we will live like king and queen, 
Sae blythe and merry we will be 

When ye set by the wheel at e'en. 
A man may drink and no be drunk ; 

A man may fight and no be slain ; 
A man may kiss a bonnie lass. 

And aye be welcome back again. 



f antilaiiii, fount Hje tmlnl 

Tune — Hey tuttie, taitie. 

L.\ndlady, count the lawin. 

The day is near the dawin ; 

Ye're a' blind drunk, boys, 

And I'm but jolly fou. 

Hey tuttie, taitie. 

How tuttie, taitie — 

Wha's fou now ? 



FIRST WHE25 MAGGY WAS ]\IY CARE. 



247 



Cog, an ye were aye fou. 
Cog, an ye were aye fou, 
I wad sit and sing to you. 
If ye were aye foil. 

VVeel may ye a' be ! 
Ill may we never sec ! 
God bless tlie king, boys. 
And the companie 1 



mattlitt' ffinaiitt' aiJillip. 

Tune — Raltlin' roarin' nilUe. 

Oh, rattlin' roarin' Willie, 

Oh, he held to the fair. 
And for to sell his fiddle, 

And buy some other ware; 
But parting wi' his fiddle, 

The saut tear blin't his ee; 
And rattlin' roarin' Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me ! 

Oh Willie, come sell your fiddle. 

Oh sell your fiddle sae fine ; 
Oh Willie, come sell your fiddle. 

And buy a pint o' wine. 
If I should sell my fiddle. 

The warl would think I was mad ; 
For mony a rantin' day 

My fiddle and I hae had. 

As I cam by Crochallan, 

I caunily kcekit ben — 
Rattlin' roarin' A^'il^c 

Was sitting at y. n bo ird en' — 
Sitting at yon bo:i d m'. 

And amang giiid couipaoie; 
Rattlin roaring' Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me ! 



Tunis — Aye ivaukin O. 

Simmer's a pleasant time. 
Flowers of every colour ; 

The water rins o'er the heugh. 
And I long for my true lover. 

Aye waukin O, 

Waukm still and wearie : 
Sleep I can get naiie 

For thinking on my dearie 

When I sleep I dream, 
When I wauk I'm eerie : 

Sleep I can get nane 

For thinking on my dearie. 



Lanely night comes on, 
A' the lave are sleeping ; 

I think on my bonnie lad. 
And bleer my een wi' greetin'. 



31!rj tmi sIie's lint a lassis ijtt. 

Tune — Lady Badinscoth's Reel. 

My love she's but a lassie yet, 

My love she's but a lassie yet. 
We'll let her stand a year or twa. 

She'll no be half sae saucy yet. 
I rue the day I sought her, O, 

I rue the day I sought her, O ; 
Wha gets her needs na say she's woo'd, 

But he may say he's bought her, O ! 

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet. 

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet; 
Gae seek for pleasure where ye will. 

But here I never miss'd it yet. 
We're a' dry wi' drinking o't. 

We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; 
The mmister kiss"d the fiddler's wife. 

And could na preach for thinking o't 



Cijr Captain's Xailii. 

Tune — O Mount and Go. 



Oil mount and go. 

Mount and make you ready; 
Oh mount and go. 

And be the captain's lady; 

When the drums do beat. 
And the cannons rattle. 

Thou shalt sit in state, 

.And see thy love in battle. 

When the vanquish'd foe 
Sues for peace and quiet. 

To the shades we'll go. 
And ill love enjoy it. 



/irst mljrn 3tlaggi| mas mtj Car?. 

Tune — Whistle o'er the lave o't. 

FiKST when IMaggy was my care. 
Heaven I thought was in her air; 
Isow we're married — spier nae mair — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, 
Bonnie Meg was nature's child; 
Wiser men than me's beguil'J — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 



248 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



How vre live, my Mej;- and me, 
How we love, and how we 'gree, 
1 care na by how few may see — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 
Wlia I wish were maggot's meat 
Dish'd up in her winding sheet, 
I could write — but Meg maun see't- 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 



Oh aye my wife she dang me. 
And aft my wife did bang me. 

If ye gie a woman a' her will, 

Guid faith, she'll soon o'ergajig ytt 



ijirir's a l^niitlj in lljis (Kitij. 

To a Gaelic Air. 

There's a youth in this city, it were a great 
pity 
That he frae our lasses should wander awa ; 
For he's bonnie and braw, weel favoured 
and a', 
And his hair has a natural buckle and a'. 
His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue ; 
His fecket is white as the new-driveu 
snaw ; 
His hose they are blae, and his shoon like 
the slae. 
And his clear siller buckles they dazzle 
us a'. 

For beauty and fortune the laddie's been 

courtiti'; [and braw; 

Weel-featured,weel-tocher'd,weel-mounted, 

But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang 

till her. 

The penny's the jewel that beautifies a'. 

There's Meg wi' the mailen that fain wad 

a-haen him ; [lia' ; 

And Susie, whose daddy was laird o' the 

There's lang-tocher'd Nancy maist fetters 

his fancy — [of a'. 

But the laddie's dear sel' he Iocs dearest 



^^ Si]\i mij WiU sl]p Smig me. 

Tune — My wife she Bang me. 

AYE my wife she dang me. 

And aft my wife did bang me. 
If ye gie a woman a' her will, 

Guid faith, she'll soon o'ergang ye. 
On peace and rest my mind was bent. 

And fool I was I married; 
But never honest man's intent 

As cursedly miscarried. 

Some sa'r o' comfort still at last, 
When a' my days are done, man ; 

My pains o' hell on earth are past, 
I'm sure o' bliss aboon, man. 



0{ijiij Bair. 

Tune — My Eppic. 

And oh ! my Eppie, 
My jewel, my Eppie ! 
Wha wadna be happy 

Wi' Eppie Adair ? 
By love, and by beauty. 
By law, and by duty, 
I swear to be true to 

My Eppie Adair 1 

And oil ! my ]']ppie. 
My jewel, my Eppie, 
Wha wadna be happy 

Wi' Eppie Adair? 
A' pleasure exile me. 
Dishonour defile me. 
If e'er I beguile thee. 

My Eppie Adair ! 



CljB ^attb Df lljtrriff-BIttit. 

Tune — Cameronian Rant. 

" Oh cam ye here the fight to shun. 

Or herd the sheep wi' me, man? 
Or were ye at the Sherra-muir, 

And did the battle see, man?" 
" I saw the battle, sair and tough. 
And reekin' red ran mony a sheugh. 
My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough. 
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds, 
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, , 
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, maiL 

The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades. 
To meet them were na slaw, man ; 
They rush'd and push'd, and bluid outgush'd, 

And mony a bouk did fa', man ; 
The great Argyle led on his files, 
I wat they glanc'd for twenty miles : 
They hack'd and hash'd while broadsw^ord» 

clash'd, 
Andthro'they dash'd,and hew'd,and smash'd. 
Till fey men died awa, man. 

But had you seen the philabegs. 
And skyrin tartan trews, man; 

When in the teeth they dar'd our Whigs, 
And covenant true blues, man ; 




THKhK vvA^^ A i,-\- 



THENIEL MENZIE'S BONNIE MARY. 



249 



In ]me^ extended lang and large, 
■yVhen bayonets opposed the targe, 
And thousands hasten'd to the charge, 
\Vi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath 
Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath, 
They fled like frighted doos, man." 

" Oh how die], Tam, can that be true ? 

The chase gaed frae the North, man ; 
1 saw myself, they did pursue 

The horseman back to Forth, man ; 
And at Dunblane, in my ain sight, 
They took the brig wi' a' their might. 
And straught to Stirling winged their flight ; 
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut ; 
And mony a huntit, poor red-coat, 

For fear amaist did swarf, man !" 

' My sister Kate cam up the gate 

Wi' crowdie unto me, man ; 
She swore she saw some rebels run 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man : 
Their left-hand general had nae skill. 
The Angus lads had nae good will 
That day their neibor's blood to spill ; 
For fear, by foes, that they should lose 
Then: cogs o, brose — all crying woes ; 

And so it goes you see, man. 

They've lost some gallant gentlemen 
Amang the Higliland clans, man : 

I fear my Lord Panmure is slain. 
Or fallen in Whiggish hands, man : 

Now wad ye sing tliis double fight. 

Some fell for wrang, and some for right; 

But mony bade tlie world guid-night ; 

Then ye may tell, how pell and mell. 

By red claymores, and muskets' knell, 

Wi' dying yell, the Tories fell. 
And Whigs to hell did flee, man." 



Clie iigljlantt lliihra's lamrnt. (388) 

Oh ! I am come to the low countrie, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Without a penny in my purse. 

To buy a meal to me. 

It was na sae in the Highland hills, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Nae woman in the country wide 

Sae happy was as me. 

For then I had a score o' kye, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Feeding on yon hills so high. 

And giving milk to me. 

And there I had three score o' yowes, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Skipping on yon bonnie knowes. 

And casting woo' to me. 



I was the happiest of a' the clan, 

Sair, sair may I repine ; 
For Donald was the brawest lad. 

And Donald he was mine. 

Till Charlie Stewart cam at last, 

Sae far to set us free ;■ 
My Donald's arm was wanted thea, 

For Scotland and for me. 

Their warfu' fate what need I tell ? 

Right to the wrang did yield : 
My Donald and his country fell 

Upon Culloden's field. 

Oh ! I am come to the low countrie, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Nae woman in the world wide 

Sae wretched now as me. 



Tun e — Killiecrankie. 

Wii.\RE hae ye been sae braw, lad? 

Where hae ye been sae brankie, O ? 
Oh, wharc hae ye been sae braw, lad? 

Cam ye by Killiecrankie, O ? 
An ye had been whare I hae been. 

Ye wad nae been sae cantie, O; 
An ye had seen wliat I hae seen. 

On the braes of Killiecrankie, O. 

I fought at land, I fought at sea ; 

At hanie I fought my auntie, O ; 
But I met the devil and Dundee, 

On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O. 
The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr, 

And Clavers got a clankie, O ; 
Or I had fed an Athole gled, 

On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O, 



(!:!jrnirl 3}Ii:n|iE's SuniiiE 5i!an}. 

Tune— r/ie Ruffian's Rant. 

In coming by the brig o' Dye, 

At Darlet we a blink did tarry ; 
As day was dawin in the sky. 

We drank a health to bonnie Mary. 
Theniel Menzie's bonnie JIary, 

Theniel Menzie's bonnie !Mary ; 
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 
Kissiu' Tlieniel's bonnie Mary. 

Her een sae bright, her brow sae white. 
Her hatfet locks as brown's a berry ; 

And aye they dimpl't wi' a smile. 
The rosy cheeks o' bonnie Mary. 



250 



BUKNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



We lap and danced the lee lang day. 
Till piper lads were wae and weary: 

Bat Charlie gat the spring to pay, 
For kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary. 



/rat ijjB /ritnis aiili faiiii i f nire. 

Air — Carron Side. 

Frae the friends and land I love 

Driv'n by fortune' felly spite, 
Frae my best belov'd I rove. 

Never mair to taste dcliji'l t ; 
Never mair maim hope to tiud 

Ease frae toil, relief frae care: 
When remembrance wracks the miad. 

Pleasures but unveil despair. 

Brightest climes shall mirk appear. 

Desert ilka blooming shore. 
Till the fates nae mair severe. 

Friendship, love, and peace restore; 
Till Revenge, wi' laurell'd head, 

Bring our banish'd hame again ; 
And ilk loyal bonnie lad 

Cross the seas and win his ain. 



§mit is lljE Sail. 

Tone — Guidwife, Count the Lawin. 

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night. 
But we'll ne'er stray for fau't o' light. 
For ale and brandy's stars and moon. 
And bluid-red wine's the rising sun. 

Then guidwife, count the lawin, 
The lawin, the lawin ; 
Then guidwife, count the lawin. 
And bring a coggie mair ; 

There's wealth and ease for gentlemen. 
And simple folk maun fight and fen; 
But here we're a' in ae accord. 
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 

My coggie is a haly pool. 

That heals the wounds o' care and dool ; 

And pleasure is a wanton trout, 

An ye drink but deep ye'll find him out. 



f JIE fitljfr 31Inrn. 

Tune — To a Iligldand air 

The tither morn, when I forlorn 
Aneath an aik sat moaning, 

I did na trow, I'd see my jo, 
Beside rae, gain the gloaming. 



But he sae trig, lap o'er the rig, 

And dawtingly dii' cheer me. 
When I, what reck, uid least expec'. 

To see my lad so near me. 

His bonnet he, a thought ajee, 

Cock'd sprush when first he clasp'd me; 
And I, I wat, wi' fainness grat. 

While in his grips he press'd me. 
Deil tak the war ! I late and air, 

Hae wish'd since Jock departed; 
But now as glad I'm wi my lad. 

As short syne broken-hearted. 

Fu' aft at e'en wi' dancing keen, 

When a' were blythe and merry, 
I car'd na by, sae sad was I, 

In absence o' my dearie. 
But, praise be blest, my mind's at rest, 

I'm happy wi' my Johnny : 
At kirk and fair, I'se aye be there. 

And be as canty's ony. 



fnniE ©nat hie n'rr ta (Cljarlip. 

Tune — O'er the Water to Charlie. 

Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er. 
Come boat me o'er to Charlie ; 

ril gie John Ross another bawbee. 
To boat me o'er to Charlie. 

We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea. 
We'll o'er the water to Charlie ; 

Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go 
And live or die wi' Charlie. 

I loe weel my Charlie's name 
Tho' some there be abhor him : 

But oh, to see auld Nick gaiin hame. 
And Charlie's face before him ! 

I swear and vow by moon and stars. 
And sun that shines so early. 

If 1 had twenty thousand lives, 
I'd die as aft for Charlie. 



St is na, Iran, iljii ©nnnir ^m. 

Tune — The Maid's Complaint. 

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face 

Nor shape that I admire, 
Altho' thy beauty and thy grace 

Might weel awake desire. 
Something, in ilka part o' thee. 

To praise, to love, I find ; 
But dear as is thy form to me, 

Still dearer is thy mind. 



AS I "WAS A-TVANDERING. 



251 



Nae mair unsren'rous vriish I hae. 

Nor stronger in my breiist, 
Than if I canna mak thee sae, 

At least to see thee Idlest. 
Content am I, if Heaven shall give 

But happiness to thee : 
And as ^^•i' thee I'd wish to live. 

For thee I'd bear to die. 



% ^u a Wlft n' mil Sin. (389) 

Tun e — Naehody. 

I HAE a wife o' my ain — • 

I'll partake wi' naebody; 
I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 

I'll gie cuckold to naebody. 
I hae a penny to spend. 

There — thanks to naebody ; 
I liae naethiug to lend, 

I'll borrow frae naebody, 

I am naebody's lord — 

I'll be slave to naebody; 
I hae a guid braid sword, 

I'll tak dunts frae naebody. 
I'll be merry and free, 

I'll be sad for naebody ; 
If naebody care for me, 

I'll care for naebody. 



XlatljshlB's ilirlrnmo Sum?. 

The noble Maxwells and their powers 

Are comhig o'er the border. 
And they'll gae bigg Terreagles towers, 

And set them a' in order. 
And they declare Terreagles fair. 

For their abode they chuse it ; 
There's no a heart in a' the land, 

But's lighter at the news o't. 

Tho' stars in skies may disappear, 

And angry tempests gather, 
The happy hour may soon be near 

That brings us pleasant weather: 
The weary night o' care and grief 

May hae a joyful morrow ; 
So dawning day has brought relief— 

Fareweel our niRht o' sorrow 1 



ain Cnllirr Xaiiiilj. 

Tune — The Collier Laddie, 

Where live ye, my bonnie lass? 

And tell me what they ca' ye ; 
My name, she says, is Jlistrcss Jean, 

And I follow the Collier Laddie. 



Jly name, she says, is Mistress Jean, 
And I follow the Collier Laddie. 

See you not yon hills and dales, 
The sun shines on sae brawlie ! 

They a' are mine, and they shall be thine. 
Gin ye'll leave your Collier I^addie. 

They a' are mine, and they shall be thine. 
Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. 

Ye shall sjang in gay attire, 

Wecl buskit up sae gaudy ; 
And ane to wait on every band. 

Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie, 
And ane to wait on every hand, 

Gin ye'll leave your CoUier Laddie. 

Tho' ye had a' the sun shines on, 
And the earth conceals sae lowly; 

I wad turn my back on you and it a'. 
And embrace my Collier Laddie. 

I wad turn my back on you and it a*. 
And embrace my Collier Laddie. 

I can win my five pennies in a day, 
A nd spen 't at night fu' brawlie ; 

And make my bed in the Collier's neuk. 
And lie down wi' my Collier Laddie, 

And make my bed in the Collier's neuk. 
And lie down wi' my Collier Laddie. 

Luve for luve is the bargain for me, 

Tho' the wee cot-house should hand me; 

And the world before me to win my bread. 
And fair fa' my Collier Laddie. 

And the world before me to win my bread. 
And fair fa' my Collier Laddie. 



23 



Sis S mas a-IVaniirring, 

Tune — Rinn Meudial mo Mhealladh. 

As I was a-wanderieg ane midsummer e'enin'. 

The pipers and youngsters were making 

their game ; 

Amang tlicta I sjned my faithless fause lover. 

Which bled a' the wounds o' my dolour 

again. 

Weel, since he has left me, my pleasure 

gae wi' him ; [plain. 

I may be distress'd, but I winna com- 

I flatter my fancy I may get anithcr. 

My heart it shall never be broken for 

ane. 

I couldna get sleeping till dawin for greetin'. 
The tears trickled down like the liail and 
the rain ; 

Had I ua got greetin', my heart wad a broken. 
For oh I love forsaken's a torraentnig pain. 



252 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Allliou^h he lias left me for greed o' the 
siller, 

I diniia envy liim the gains he can win ; 
I rather wad bear a' the lade o' my sorrow 

Than ever hae acted sae faithless to him. 



f^E Sarnliitrs hif SlaniB. 

Tune — Ye Jacobites by Name. 
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give auear ; 
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear ; 
Ye Jacobites by name. 

Your fautes I will proclaim. 

Your doctrines 1 maun blame — 
You shall hear. 
What is right and what is wrang, by the law, 
by the law ? [law ? 

What is nglit and what is wrang by the 
What is right and what is wrang? 
A short sword and a lang, 
A weak arm, and a Strang 
For to draw. 
Wliat makes heroic strife, fam'd afar, fam'd 
afar ? 
What makes heroic strife, fam'd afar ? 
What makes heroic strife ? 
To whet th' assassin's knife. 
Or hunt a parent's life 
Wi' bluidie war. 
Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in 
the state ; 
Then let your schemes alone in the state ; 
Then let your schemes alone. 
Adore the rising sun. 
And leave a man undone 
To his fate. 



ts^v, 3ilHn{ Sinn. 

Tune — Craigtown's growing. 

Oh, Lady Mary Ann looked o'er the castle 

wa' ; 
She saw three bonnie boys playing at the ba' ; 
The youngest he was the flower amang them 

a' — [yet. 

Jly bonnie laddie's young, but he's growin' 

Oh father ! oh father ! an ye think it fit. 
We'll send him a year to tlie college yet : 
We'll sew a green ribbon round about his hat. 
And that will let them kea he's to marry 

yet. 

Lady Mary Ann was a flower i' the dew. 

Sweet was its smell, and bonnie was its hue ; 

And the langer it blossom'd the sweeter it 

grew : [yet. 

For the hly in the bud will be bonnier 



Young Charlie Cochrane was the sprout of 
an aik ; [makes, 

Bonnie and bloomin' and straught was it : 
The sun took delight to shine for its sake. 
And it will be the brag o' the forest yet. 

The simmer is gane when the leaves they 

were green. 
And the days are awa that we hae seen ; 
But far better days I trust will come again. 
For my bonnie laddie's young, but he's 

growin' yet. 



M un iljp /aillj. 

Tune — Charlie Gordon's Welcome Hame. 

Out over the Forth I look to-the north, 
But what is the noith and its Highlands 
to me ? 

The south nor the east gie ease to my breast, 
The far foreign land, or the wild-rolling sea. 

But I look to the west, when I gae to rest, 
That happy my dreams and my slumbers 
may be ; 

For far in the west lives he I Ice best. 
The lad that is dear to my babie and me. 



Snrkrij's tarn ilii; ^^arting IRiss. ■ 

Tune — Jockey's taen the Parting Kist. 

Jockey's taen the parting kiss. 

O'er the mountahis he is gane ; 
And within him is a' my bliss. 

Nought but griefs with me remain. 
Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 

Plashy sleets and beating rain ! 
Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, 

Drifting o'er the frozen plain 

Wien the shades of evening creep 

O'er the day's fair, glads<jme ee, 
Sound and safely may he sleep. 

Sweetly blythe his waukening be I 
He will think on her he loves. 

Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 
For where'er he distant roves. 

Jockey's heart is still at bame. 



€^i Carlrs n' Diisart, 

Tune — Hey ca' thro' 

Up wi' the carles o' Dysart, 
And the lads o' Buckliaven, 

And the kimmers o' Largo, 
And the lasses o' Leven. 



SAE FAR AWA. 



253 



Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro'. 
For we liae mickle ado ; 

Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', 
I'or we hae mickle ado. 

We hae tales to tell. 

And we hae sangs to sing ; 
We hae pennies to spend. 

And we hae pints to bring. 

We'll live a' our days. 

And them that come behin'. 
Let them do the like. 

And spend the gear they win. 



f aUij M'lt, 

Tune — The Ruffian's Rant. 

A' THE lads o' Thornie-bank, 

When they gae to the shore o' Bucky, 
They'll step in and tak a pint 
Wi' Lady Onlie, honest Lucky I 
Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, 

Brews guid ale at shore o' Bucky I 
I wish her sale for her guid ale. 
The best on a' the shore o' Bucky. 

Her house sae bien, her curch sae clean, 

I wat she is a dainty chucky ; 

And cheerlie blinks the ingle-gleed 

Of Lady Onlie, honest Lucky I 

Lady Oulie, honest Lucky, 

Brews guid ale at shore o' Bucky ; 
I wish her sale for her guid ale. 
The best on a' the shore o' Bucky. 



^nnitg %mii, l^klh nf a' tjis '^31ain. 

Tune — 2'Ae Carlin o' the Glen. 

Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain, 
Sae gallant and sae gay a swain ; 
Thro' a' our lasses he did rove. 
And reigned resistless king of love : 
But now wi' sighs and starting tears. 
He strays araang the woods and briers ; 
Or in the glens and rocky caves 
His sad complaining dowie raves. 

I wha sae late did range and rove. 
And chang'd with every moon my love, 
I little thought the time was near. 
Repentance 1 should buy sae dear : 
The slighted maids my torment see^ 
And laugh at a' the pangs I dree ; 
While she, my cruel, scornfu' fair. 
Forbids me e'er to see her mair ! 



^rnnq's a' mat, ;innr ©Diri|. 

Tune — Coming throwjh the Rye. 

Coming through the rye, poor body, 

Coming throTigh the rye. 
She draiglct a' her petticoatie, 
Cuming through the rye. 
Jenny's a' wat, poor body, 

Jenny's seldom dry ; 
She draiglct a' her petticoatie, 

Coming through the r3'e. 
Gin a body meet a body 

Coming through the rye, 
Gin a body kiss a body, 

Need a body cry ? 
Gin a body meet a body 

Coming through the glen. 
Gin a body kiss a body. 
Need the world ken ? 



Clji! Cariiiii' n't. 

Tune — Salt-fish and Dumplings. 

I COFT a stane o' haslock woo'. 

To make a wat to Johnny o't ; 
For Johnny is my only jo, 
I loe him best of ony yet. 

The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't. 

The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't ; 
When ilka ell cost me a groat. 
The tailor staw the linin o't. 
For though his locks be lyart grey. 

And though his brow be held abooQ; 
Yet I hae seen him on a day. 
The pride of a' the parisben. 



®n tijrj, Innrii M\). 

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains, 
AVhere late wi' careless thought I rang'il, 

Though prest wi' care and sunk in woe. 
To thee I bring a heart unchang'd. 

I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, 
Tho' meni'ry there my bosom tear ; 

For there he rov'd that brake my heart, 
Yet to that heart, ah ! still how dear 1 



lai far 3raa. 

Tune — Dalkeith Maiden Bridge. 

On, sad and heavy should I part. 
But for her sake sae far awa ; 

Unknowing what my way may thwart 
My native land sae far awa. 



251 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Tho\i that of a' tlin<rs Maker art, 
Tliat form'd this ftiir sae far awa, 

Gie body strength, then I'll ne'er start 
At this my way sae far awa. 

How true is love to pure desert. 

So love to her, sae far awa : 
And nocht can heal my bosom's smart. 

While, oh ! she is sae far awa. 
I'Jane other love, nane other dart, 

I feel but her's, sae far awa ; 
But fairer never touch'd a heart 

Than her's, the fair sae far awa. 



Wsii is iiitj 3?rart. 

Tune — Wae is my Heart. 

Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my ee ; 
Lang, lang, joy's been a stranger to me : 
Forsaken and friendless, my burden I bear. 
And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in 
my ear. 

Love, thou hast pleasures, and deep hae I 
loved : [proved ; 

Love, thou hast sorrows, and sair hae I 

But this bruised heart that now bleeds in 
my breast, 

I can feel its throbbings will soon be at rest. 

Oh, if I were happy, where happy I hae been, 
Down by yon stream, and yon bonnie castle- 
green ; [me. 
For there he is wand'ring, and musing on 
Wha wad soon dry the tear frae Phillis's ee. 



ilinang Hje Iwps. 

Tune — The King of France, he rade a Race. 

Amang the trees where humming bees 

At buds and flowers were hinging, O, 
Auld Caledon drew out her drone. 

And to her pipe was singing, O ; 
'Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels. 

She dirl'd them aff fu' clearly, O, 
When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels. 

That dang her tapsalteerie, O. 

Their capon craws and queer ha, ha's. 

They made our lugs grow eerie, O ; 
The hungry bike did scrape and pike 

Till we were wae and weary, O. 
But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd, 

A prisoner aughteen year awa, 
He fir'd a fiddler in the North 

That dang them tapsalteerie, 0. 



Tvt^E— If thouHt Play me Fair Play. 
The bonniest lad that e'er I saw, 

Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. 
Wore a plaid, and was fu' braw, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 
On his head a bonnet blue, 

Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ; 
His royal heart was firm and true, 

Bonnie Higliland laddie. 

Trumpets sound, and cannons roar, 

Bonnie lassie. Lowland lassie ; 
And a' the hills wi' echoes roar, 

Bonnie Lowland lassie. 
Glory, honour, now invite, 

Bonnie lassie. Lowland lassie. 
For freedom and my king to fight, 

Bonnie Lowland lassie. 

Tlie sun a backward course shall take, 

Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. 
Ere aught thy manly courage shake, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 
Go ! for yourself procure renown, 

Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie; 
And for your lawful king his crown, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 



SJannnrks n' ©arljij. 

Tune — The Killogie, 

Bannocks o' bear meal. 

Bannocks o' barley ; 
Here's to the Highlandraan's 

Bannocks o' barley. 
Wha in a brulzie 

Will first cry a parley ? 
Never the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley ! 

Bannocks o' bear meal. 

Bannocks o' barley ; 
Here's to the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley I 
Wha in his wae-days 

Were loyal to Charlie?— 
Wha but the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley? 



fxnbin IJjnrE k MslxA, 



Robin shure in hairst, 
I shure wi' him ; 

Fient a heuk had I, 
Yet I stack by him. 



THE LADDIES BY TUE BANKS O'NITH. 



255 



I gaed up to Dunse, 

To warp a wab o' plaiden ; 
At his (laddie's yett, 

Wha met mc but Robiu? 
Was na Robin bauld, 

Though I was a cotter, 
Play'd nie sic a trick, 

And me the eller's dochterP 
Robin promised me 

A' my winter vittlc ; 
Fient liaet he had but three 

Goose feathers and a whittle. 



Imrrtrst M^. 

Sweetest May, let love inspire thee; 
Take a heart which he desires thee ; 
As thy constant slave regard it ; 
For its faith and truth reward it. 
Proof o' shot to birth or money. 
Not the wealthy but the bounie ; 
Not high-born, but noble-minded, 
la love's silken band can bind it. 



€l}t fass nf (Errlrfrrljan. 

Tune — Jachj Latin. 

Gat ye me, oh gat ye me. 

Oh gat ye me wi' naethin^ 
Rock and reel, and spinnin' wheel, 

A mickle quarter basin. 
Bye attour, my gutcher has 

A Inch house and a laigh ane, 
A' forbye my bonnie sel'. 

The lass of Ecclefcchan. 

Oh hand your tongue now, Luckie Laing, 

Oh hand your tongue and jannier ; 
I held the gate till you I met. 

Syne I began to wander : 
I tint my whistle and my sang, 

I tint my peace and pleasure : 
But your green graff, now, Luckie Laing, 

Wad airt me to my treasure. 



Mm's K SottlE ani an Unnrst .hm'ii. 

Here's a bottle and an honest friend ! 

AVha wad ye wish for mair, man ? 
Wha kens, before his life may end, 

AVhat his share may be o' Cire, man? 
Then catch the moments as they fly. 

And use them as ye ought, man :— 
Believe me, happiness is shy. 

And comes na aye when sought, man. 



(!^^ a '^cMDiigljraan. 



As I was a-wand'ring ane morning in spring, 
I heard a young ploughman sae sweetly to 

sing ; 
And as he was singing these words, he did say. 
There's uae life like the iiloughman's in the 

month o' sweet JIay. 

The lav'rock in the morning she'll rise frae 
her nest, [breast. 

And mount to the air wi' the dew on her 

And wi' t!ie merry ploughman she'll wliistle 
and sing, [again. 

And at night she'll return to her nest back 



Tune— r/ie Weanj Pwul o' Tow. 

The weary pund, the weary puud. 

The weary pund o' tow ; 
I think my wife will end lier life 

Before she spin her tow. 

I bought my wife a stane o' lint 

As guid as e'er did grow ; 
And a' that she has made o' that. 

Is ane poor pund o' tow. 

There sat a bottle in a bole, 

Beyont the ingle lowe. 
And aye she took the tither souk. 

To drouk the stowrie tow. 

Quoth \, for shame, ye dirty dame, 

Gae spin your tap o' tow ! 
She took the rock, and wi' a knock 

She brak it o'er my pow. 

At last her feet — I sang to see't — 
Gaed foremost o'er the kuowe ; 

And ere I wad anither jad, 
I'll wallop in a tow. 



(TiljB tM\n hij tljc %mh n' Jflitlj. (soo) 

Tune — Up and waur them a'. 

The laddies by the banks o' Nith, 
Wad trust his Grace wi' a', Jamie, 

But he'll sair them as he sair'd the king. 
Turn tail and rin awa, Jamie. 

Up and waur them a', Jamie, 

Up and waur them a' ; 
The Johnstones hae the guidiu' o't. 

Ye turncoat whigs, awa. 



23^ 



276 



BUlt>rS-S POETICAL WORKS. 



The day lie stude his country's friend. 
Or gied lier faes a daw, Jamie, 

Or frae puir mati a lilessin' wan, 
That day the duke ne'er saw, Jamie. 

But wha is he, his country's boast ? 

Like him there is na twa, Jamie ; 
There's no a callant tents the kye. 

But kens o' Westerha', Jamie. 

To end the wark, here's Wliistlebirci, 
Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie ; 

And Maxwell true o' sterling blue. 
And we'll be Johnstones a', Jamie. 



cltplgrninij, ^r. 



(Dn f aptain <S)rnsj^ 

THE CELEBRATED ANTiaUARY. (391) 

The Devil got notice that Grose was 

a-dying, [flying; 

So whip! at the summons, old Satin came 

But when he approach'd where poor Francis 

lay moaning. 
And saw each bed-post with its burden a- 
groaning (392), 

Astonish'd, confounded, cried Satan, " By 

I'll want 'im, ere I take such a damnable load,' 



dttn a SJrnprrkril (i^niintrtj liiitirp. 

Oh death, hadst thou but spar'd his life 

Whom we this day lament. 
We freely wad exchang'd the wife. 

And a' been weel content. 

E'en as he is, caulJ in his graff. 

The swap we yet will do't ; 
Tak thou the carlin's carcase aff, 

Thou'se get the saul to boot. 



Sniit|)pr na \}b XUihni. 

One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell. 
When deprived of her husband she loved so 

well, [show'd her. 

In respect for the love and affection he 
She reduc'd him to dust, and she drank oflf 

the powder. 



But Clueen Netherplace, of a different cora« 
plexion, [tion. 

When call'd on to order the fun'ral direc- 

Would have ate her dead lord, on a slender 
pretence, [expense ! 

Not to show her respect, but — to save the 



i)ii f IpIjinstnaE's 
franslatinns nf ^llartial's digrams. 

(393) 

Oh thou, whom poesy abhors, 
AVhom prose has turned out of doors, 
Heard'st thou that groan — proceed no 

further ; 
Twas laurelled Martial roaring murther I 



i^n BIi53 S Irnlt, nf Iqr. 

Oh ! had each Scot of ancient times. 
Been Jeany Scott, as thou art; 
The bravest heart on English ground. 
Had yielded like a coward. 



^n an lllitrrah irntlmaa, 

who had a fine library. 

Free through the leaves, ye maggots, make 

your windings ; [bindings ! 

But for the owner's sake, oh spare tha 



UNDERTHE picture of MISS BURNS. (394) 

Cease, ye prudes, your envious railings. 
Lovely Burns has charms — confess : 

True it is, she had one failing- 
Had a woman ever less ? 



X^rittra nn a XViaiiDra nf iljp iaa 

at carron. 

We cam na here to view your warks 

In hopes to be mair wise. 
But only, lest we gang to hell, 

It may be nae surprise : 

But whan we tirled at your door. 
Your porter dought na hear us ; 

Sae may, should we to hell's yetts corner 
Your billy Satan sair us I 



ON THE EARL OF * ♦ • * 267 

WtlWu m a '^3anE nf §\m QUjt ,f nlrran I^ragnu ul dTnnrnaDt. 

IN THE INN AT MOFFAT. (395) 



ASK why God made the gem so small. 
And why so huge the granite ? 

Because God meant mankind should set 
The higher value on it. 



/raginrnt. (396) 



The black-headed eagle 

Aa keen as a beagle, 
He hunted o^^tc height and owre howe ; 

But feU in a trap 

On the braes o' Gemappe, 
E'en let him come out as he dowe. 



i^n Snrinilitij sIididii Ijira at Snarrnarij. 

(397) 

Whoe'er he be that sojourns here, 

I pity much his case, 
Unless he come to wait upon 

The Lord their God, his Grace. 

There's naething here but Highland pride. 
And Higliland scab and hunger ; 

If providence has sent me here, 
'Twas surely in his auger. 



iigljlanli i^s{Iitalit^. (398) 

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 
A time that surely shall come. 

In Heaven itself I'll ask no more. 
Than just a Higliland welcome 



lints nil Biss IRrmbh. 

Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief 

Of Moses and his rod ; 
At Yarico's sweet notes of grief 

The rock with tears had flow'd. 



^n l.IjE lirk at f amingtnn. 

A CAULD day December blew, 
A cauld kirk, and iu't but few, 
A caulder minister never spak — 
They'll a' be warm ere I come back. 



(399) 

The Solemn League and Covenant 

Cost Scotland blood — cost Scotland tears : 

But it seal'd freedom's sacred cause — 
If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers. 



di'ii a Crrtaln '^.^irsnn's f nnks. 

That there is falsehood in his looks 

I must and will deny ; 
They say their master is a knave— 

And sure they do not lie. 



<^\i Irring tljB IJraiitifnl .frat 



OF THE EARL OF 



What dost thou in that mansion fair? — 

Flit, * * * * and find 
Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave. 
The picture of thy mind ! 



H llic (0arl d* • • • 

No Stewart art thou, * » * » 
The Stewarts all were brave ; 

Besides, the Stewarts were but fools. 
Not one of them a knave. 



On the Same. 

Bright ran thy line, oh * » * • 
Thro' many a far-fam'd sire ! 

So ran tlie far-fam'd Roman way. 
So ended in a mire. 



To the Same, 

ON the author being threatened 
with his resentment. 

Spare me thy vengeance, • » * ( 

In quiet let me Uve : 
I ask no kindness at thy hand. 

For thou hast none to give. 



258 



DURNS'S POETICAL WORK&. 



(Dii an (Smirfti ^JTrllDiii, 

WHO IN COMPANY ENGROSSED THE CONVERSATION 
WITH AN ACCOUNT OP HIS GREAT CONNEXIONS. 

No more of your titled acquaintances boast, 
And what nobles and gentles you've seen ; 

An insect is still but an insect at most, 
Tho' it crawl on the curl of a Q,ueea ! 



WiWim m a 1{hM nf &h5% 

ON THE OCCASION OP A NATIONAL 
THANKSGIVING FOR A NAVAL VICTORY. 

Ye hypocrites ! are these your pranks ? — 
To murder men, and gie God thanks ! 
For shame ! gie o'er, proceed no further — 
God won't accept your thanks for murther ! 



^^ f rnB fnpl Mlm. (4oo) 

Ye true "Loyal Natives," attend to my song 
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long : 
From envy and hatred your corps is exempt; 
But where is your shield from the darts o' 
contempt ? 



Qiisrriptinn nil a §Mit 

There's death in the cup — sae beware! 

Nay, more — there is danger in touching 
But wha can avoid the fell snare ? 

The man and his wine's sae bewitching I 



No more of your guests, be they titled or 
not. 
And cookery the first in the nation ; 
Who is proof to thy personal converse and 
wit. 
Is proof to all other temptation. 



Sn 3Hr. Ipp, 

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER. 

On, had the malt thy strength of mind. 
Or hops the flavour of thy wit, 

'Twere drink for first of human kind, 
A gift that e'en for Syme were fit. 



QIIlB €m]i Ef ^JnHcrtti. (40i) | 

In politics if thou would'st mix, 

And mean thy fortunes be. 
Bear this in mind : — be deaf and bliu^ 

Let great folks hear and see. 



miltrn in a f aiiii's f nrkpt-SSnnit. 

Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may 
live, [give. 

To see the miscreants feel the pains they 
Deal freedom's sacred treasures free as air. 
Till slave and despot be but things which 



Qf-n M)R laijlnr. (402) 

With Pegasus upon a day, 

Apollo weary flying. 
Through frosty hills the journey lay. 

On foot the way was plying. 

Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus 

Was but a sorry walker ; 
To Vulcan then Apollo goes, 

To get a frosty calker. 

Obliging Vulcan fell to work, 
Threw by his coat and bonnet. 

And did Sol's business in a crack; 
Sol paid him with a sonnet. 

Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead, 

Pity my sad disaster ; 
My Pegasus is poorly shod — 

I'll pay you like my master. 



f n Biss /nntEnrllp, 

ON SEEING HER IN A FAVOURITE 
CHARACTER. 

Sweet naivete of feature. 
Simple, wild, enchanting elf. 

Not to thee, but thanks to Nature, 
Thou art acting but thyself. 

Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected. 
Spurning nature, torturing art; 

Loves and graces all rejected. 
Then indeed thou'd'st act a part 



GRACES BEFORE MEAT. 



259 



(CIjp f nast. (403) 



Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a 

toast — 
Here's the memory of those on the twelth 

that we lost ! — 
That we lost, did I say? nay, by Heav'n, 

that we found ; 
For their fame it shall last while the world 

goes round. [King! 

The next in succession, I'll give you — the 
Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he 

swing ; [tution. 

And here's the grand fabric, our free Consti- 
As built on the base of the great Revolution ; 
And longer with politics not to be cramm'd. 
Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd : 
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal. 
May his son be a hangman, and he his first 

trial. 



£xn5mm Itninrrsal, 

WRITTEN ON A 'WINDOW. (404) 

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneer- 
ing [hearing, 
'Gainst poor excisemen ? give the cause a 
Vrha.t are your landlords' rent-rolls ? teazing 
ledgers : [mighty gangers : 
■\Vhat premiers— what ? even raonarchs' 
Nay, what are priests, those seeming godly 

wise men ? 
What are they, pray, but spiritual excisemen ? 



■ffin Dr. Harrarll, 

ON MISS JESSY STAIG'S RECOVERY. 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave. 

That merit I deny — 
You save fair Jessy from the grave I 

An angel could not die. 



(Dn Smsii tmm. (405) 

Talk not to me of savages 

From Afric's burning sun ; 
No savage e'er could rend my heart. 

As, Jessy, thou hast done. 
But Jessy's lovely hand in mine, 

A mutual faith to plight. 
Not even to view the heavenly choir 

Would be so blest a sight. 



Toast to the Same. (406) 

Fill me with the rosy wine. 
Call a toast — a toast divine ; 
Give the poet's darling flame. 
Lovely Jessy be the name ; 
Then thou mayest freely boast 
Thou hast given a peerless toast 



Epitaph on the Same. (40'7) 

Say, sages, what's the charm on earth 
Can turu death's dart aside? 

It is not purity and worth. 
Else Jessy had not died. 



To the Same. 

But rarely seen since Nature's birth. 

The natives of the sky ; 
Yet still one seraph's left on earth. 

For Jessy did not die. 



§nm kim 3l!rat. 

Some hae meat and canna eat, 
And some would eat that want it, 

But we hae meat, and we can eat, 
Sae let the Lord be thankit. 



Oh Thou, who kindly dost provide 

For every creature's want ! 
We bless Thee, God of Nature wide. 

For all thy goodness lent : 

And, if it please Thee, heavenly guide. 

May never worse be sent ; 
But whether granted or denied. 

Lord, bless us with content 1 Amen ! 



On Thou, in whom we live and move 

Who mad'st the sea and shore ; 
Thy goodness constantly we prove. 

And grateful would adore. 
And if it please thee, Pow'r above, 

Still grant us, with such store. 
The friend we trust, the fair we love, 

And we desire no more. 



260 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



(!^|iitn|il)3. 



(^n iljB UnWjJifs /atljrr. 

Oh ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 

Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! 
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains. 

The tender father, and the gen'rous friend. 
The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; 

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human 
pride ; 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; 

"For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's 
side." (408) 



(Dtt a iinptrk'ir fonutrij Ipirj. 

As father Adam first was fool'd, 
A case that's still too common, 

Here lies a man a woman rul'd. 
The devil rul'd the woman 



(Dn K l^rirbratrJi Unling Cllirr. 

Here souter Hood in death does sleep- 
To hell, if he's gane thither. 

Satan, gie him the gear to keep 
He'U hand it weel thegither. 



<^n a Slcisti 1.^nlrniir. (409) 

Below these stanes lie Jamie's banes: 

Oh Death, it's my opinion, 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin bitch 

Into thy dark dominion ! 



<^n ajlri; Snljnnif. (4io) 

niC JACET WEE JOHNNY. 

Whoe'er thou art, oh reader, know. 
That death has murder'd Johnny I 

And here his body lies fu' low— 
For saul he ne'er had ony. 



(Dn SdIjh Bmt. 

innkeeper, MAUCHLINK. 

Here lies Johnny Pidgeon; 
^V^lat was his religion ? 

Wha e'er desires to ken. 
To some other warl' 
Maun foUow the carl. 

For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane I 

Strong ale was ablution — 
Small beer, persecution, 

A dram was metnento mori; 
But a full flowing bowl 
AVas the joy of his soul. 

And port was celestial glory. 



/nr mnlipit liksn, f sij. 

Know thou, oh stranger to the fame 
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name I 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 



^n a /rlrnll. 

An honest man here lies at rest 
As e'er God with his image blest ! 
The friend of man, the friend of truth ; 
The friend of age, and guide of youth ; 

Few hearts like his, with ^•irtue warm'd. 
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd ; 
If there's another world, he lives in bUss ; 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



/nr §nm iamiltnn. 

The poor man weeps — here Gavin 
"Wliom cantmg wretches blam'd : 

But with such as he, where'er he be. 
May I be sav'd or damn'd 1 



<^Jl ll'at. 

Sic a reptile was AVat, 

Sic a miscreant slave. 
That the very worms damn'd him 

When laid in his grave. 
" In his flesh there's a famine," 

A starv'd reptile cries ; 
" And his heart is rank poison," 

Another replies. 




I ; A \' \! ( ) ( ' ! < 1 ', I 1 1 ; n: 



ON A riCTURE. 26] 

(S>n H Irlinnlmajfrr ^^ §zbnii HirffarJtsnn, 



IN CLEISH PARISH, FIFESHIRE. 

Hkre lie Willie Micliie's banes, 
Oh Satan, when ye tak hiui, 

Gie him the schoolin' of j'onr weans ; 
For clever deils he'll mak 'cm 1 



(Dn Bt, III £niirl!5!i;iiik3. 

Honest "Will's to Heaven j,^aue. 
And mony shall lament him ; 

His faults they a' in Latin lay, 
In Enrfish aaue e'er keiit them. 



/ur 'll'illiani ?!irnl. 

Ye maggots, feed on Nicol's brain. 
For few sic feasts you've gotten ; 

You've got a prize o' \Villie's heart. 
For deil a bit o't's rotten. 



Stop thief! dame Nature cried to Death, 
As Willie drew his latest breath ; 
You have my choicest model taea 
How shall I make a fool agaiu ? 

On the Same. 

Rest gently, turf, upon his breast. 
His chicken heart's so tender ; — 
But rear huge castles on his head. 
His skull wUl prop them uuder. 



BRliWBR, DLMFRIES, (409) 

Hf.rf. Brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct. 
An I empty all his barrels ; 

lie's blest — if as he brew'd he drink — 
In upright honest morals. 



(3) II ? n Ij II S n 5 Ij li ij, 

WRITER, DUMFRIES. 

ITf.re Hls John Bushby, honest man! 
Cheat him, devil, if you cau. 



(l>n 11)0 I'EPt'ii Jlaiigljtrr. 

Mere lies a rose, a budding rose, 

Blasted before its bloom; 
Wiinse innocence did sweets disclose 

Beyond that flower's perfume. 

To those who for her loss are griev'd. 
This consolation's given — 

She's from a world of woe reliev'd. 
And blooms a rose in heaven. 



REPRESENTING JACOB'S DREAM. 

Dear , I'll gie you some advice, 

You'll tak it no uncivil : 
You shoukhia paint at angels mair. 

But try and paint the d — 1. 

To paint an angel's kittle wark, 
AVI' auld Nick there's less danger j 

You'll easy draw a weel-kent face. 
But no sae weel a stranger. 



r 



CnrrtHfntiknre nf ^nxm. 







(13 renpoiikiire of Suras- 



NO. 1. 

rO MR JOHN ]\[URDOCH, SCHOOL- 
MASTER, 

STAFLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. 

Lochha, loth January, 1783. 
Dear Sir. — .^s I have an opportunity of 
seniliiij? you a letter without putting you to 
tliat expense which any production of mine 
would but ill repay, I embrace it witli plea- 
sure, to tell you tliat I have not forirotten, 
nor ever will forijet, tlie many obligations I 
lie under to your kindness and friendship. 

I do not doubt. Sir, but you will wish to 
know what has been the result of all the 
pains of an indnl^-eut father and a niasterly 
teacher, and I wish I could gratify your 
curiosity with such a recital as you would be 
pleased with ; but that is what I am afraid 
will not be the case. I have, indeed, kept 
pretty clear of vicious habits, and, in this 
respect, I hope my conduct will not disgrace 
the education I have gotten ; but, as a mau 
of the world, I am most miserably deficieut. 



One would have thought that, bred as I liava 
been, under a father, who has figured pretty 
well as nn homme des affaires, I might have 
been what the world calls a pushing, active 
fellow ; but to tell you the truth. Sir, there 
is hardly any thing more my reverse. I seem 
to be one sent into the world to see and ob- 
serve ; and I very easily compound with the 
knave who tricks me of my money, if there 
be any thing original about him, which shows 
nie human nature in a dilfereut light from 
any thing I have seen before. In short, the 
joy of my heart is to " study men, their 
manners, and their w^ays ;" and for this dar- 
ling subject, I cheerfully sacrifice every other 
consideration. I am quite indolent about 
those great concerns that set the bustling, 
busy sons of care agog ; and if I have to an- 
swer for the present hour, I am very easy 
with regard to any thing further. Even the 
last, worst shift of the unfortunate and the 
wretched does nor much terrify me : I know 
that even then, my talent for what country 
folks call a " sensible crack," when once it is 
sauctilied by a hoary head, would procure; me 



206 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BUEN3. 



so much esteem, that, even then, I would 
learn to be happy. However, I am under no 
apprehensions about that ; for though indo- 
lent, yet so far as an extremely delicate con- i 
stitution permits, I am not lazy, and in many 
things^ especially in tavern matters, I am a 
strict economist — not, indeed, for the sake 
of the money, but cue of the principal parts 
in my composition is a kind of pride of sto- 
mach ; and I scorn to fear the face of any 
man living — above every thing, I abhor, as hell, 
the idea of sneaking in a corner to avoid a 
dun — possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, 
who in my heart I despise and detest. 'Tis 
this, and this alone, that endears economy 
to me. In the matter of books, indeed, I am 
very profuse. My favourite authors are of 
the sentimental kind, such as Shenstone, 
particularly his " Elegies ; " Thomson ; 
" Man of Feeling" — a book I prize next to 
the Bible ;—" Man of the World;" Sterne, 
especially his " Sentimental Journey ;" Mac- 
plierson's " Ossian," &c. ; these are the glo- 
rious models after which I endeavour to form 
my conduct, and 'tis incongruous, 'tis absurd, 
to suppose that the man whose mind glows 
with sentiments lighted up at their sacred 
flame — the man whose heart distends with 
benevolence to all the human race — he "who 
can soar above this little scene of things " — 
can he descend to mind the paltry concerns 
about which the terrrefilial race fret, and fume, 
and vex themselves ! Oh how the glorious 
triumph swells my heart ! I forget tliat I 
am a poor, insignificant devil, unnoticed and 
unknown, stalking up and down fairs and 
markets, w hen I hapiien to be in them, read- 
ing a page or two of mankind, and "catching 
the manners living as they rise," whilst the 
men of business jostle me on every side, as 
an idle incumbrance in their way. But I 
dare say 1 have by this time tired your pa- 
tience ; so I shall conclude with begging you 
to give Mrs Murdoch — not my compliments, 
for that is a mere common-place story, but 
my warmest, kindest wishes for her welfare — 
and accept of the same for vourself, from, 
dear Sir, yours, R. B. 



NO. II. 

TO 



[an early love letter.] 

Lochlea, 1783. 
I VERILY believe, my dear E., that the 
pure genuine feelings of love are as rare in 
the world as the pure genuine principles of 
virtue and piety. This, I hope, will account 
for the uncommon style of all my letters to 



you. By uncommon, I mean their being 
written in such a hasty manner, wliich, 
to tell you the truth, has made me often 
afraid lest you should take me for some 
zealous bigot, who conversed with his mis- 
tress as he would converse with his minister. 
I don't know how it is, my dear, for though, 
except your company, there is nothing on 
earth gives me so much pleasure as writing 
to you, yet it never gives me those giddy 
raptures so much talked of among lovers. I 
have often thought that if a well-grounded 
affection be not really a part of virtue, 'tis 
something extremely akin to it. Whenever 
the thought of my E. warms my heart, 
every feeling of humanity; every prin- 
ciple of generosity, kindles in my breast. 
It extinguishes every dirty spark of malice 
and envy, which are but too apt to infest me. 
I grasp every creature in the arms of uni- 
versal benevolence, and equally participate 
in the pleasures of the happy, and sjnupathise 
with the miseries of the unfortunate. 1 
assure ou, my dear, I often look up to the 
Divine Disposer of events with an eye of 
gratitude for the blessing which I hope he 
intends to bestow on me in bestowing you. 
I sincerely wish that he may bless my endea- 
vours to make your life as comfortable and 
happy as possible, both in sweetening the 
rougher parts of my natural temper, and 
bettering the unkindly circumstances of my 
fortune. This, my dear, is a passion, at least 
in my view, worthy of a man, and, I will add, 
worthy of a Christian. The sordid earth- 
worm may profess love to a woman's person, 
whilst in reality his affection is centered in 
her pocket ; and the slavish drudge may go 
a-wooing as he goes to the horse-market, to 
choose one who is stout and firm, and, as we 
may say of an old horse, one who will be a 
good drudge, and draw kindly. I disdain 
their dirty, puny ideas. I would be heartily 
out of humour with myself, if I thought I 
were capable of having so poor a notion of 
the sex, which were designed to crown the 
pleasures of society. Poor devils ! I don't 
envy them their happiness who have such 
notions. For my part, I propose quite other 
pleasures with my dear partner. R. B. 



TO THE SAME. 

Loclilen, 1783. 
My Dear E. — I do not remember, in the 
course of your acquaintance and mine, ever 
to have heard your opinion on the ordinary 
way of falling in love, amongst people of our 
station in life. I do not mean the persons 



A lo^t: letter. 



26/ 



who proceed in the way of bargain, but those 
whose atfection is really placed on the person. 

Though I be, as you know very well, but a 
very awkward lover myself, yet as I have 
some opportunities of observing the conduct 
of others who are much better skilled in the 
affair of courtship than I am, I often think 
it is owing to lucky chance, more than to 
good management, that there are not more 
unhappy marriages than usually are. 

It is natural for a young fellow to like the 
acquaintance of the females, and customary for 
him to keep them company when occasion 
serves : some one of them is more agreeable 
to him than the rest — there is something, he 
knows not what, pleases him, he knows not 
how, in her company. I'his I take to be 
what is called love with the greater part of us ; 
and I must own, ray dear E., it is a hard 
game such a one as you have to play when 
you meet with such a lover. You cannot 
refuse but he is sincere, and yet though 
you use him ever so favourably, perhaps 
in a few months, or at farthest in a year 
or two, the same unaccoimtable fancy may 
make him as distractedly fond of another, 
whilst you are quite forgot. I am aware, 
that perhaps the next time I have the pleasure 
of seeing you, you may bid me take my own 
lesson home, and tell me that the passion I 
have professed for you is perhaps one of 
those transient flashes I have been descri- 
bing ; but I hope, my dear E., you will 
do me the justice to believe me, when I 
assure you that the love I have for you is 
founded ou the sacred principles of virtue 
and honour, and by consequence, so long 
as you continue possessed of those amiable 
fjualities which first inspired my passion 
for you, so long must I continue to love you. 
Believe me, n\y dear, it is love like this 
alone which can render the marriage state 
happy. I'cople may talk of flames and 
raptures as long as they please — and a warm 
fancy, with a flow of youthful spirits, may 
make them feel something like what they 
describe ; but sure_ 1 am, the nobler faculties 
of the mind, with kindred feelings of the 
heart, can only be the foundation of friend- 
ship, and it has always been my opinion 
that the married life was only friendship in 
a more exalted degree. If you will be so 
good as to grant my wishes, and it should 
please Providence to spare us to the latest 
period of life, I can look forward and see 
that even then, though bent down with 
wrinkled age — even then, when all other 
worldly circumstances will be indiflVrcnt 
to me, I will regard my E. with the tendercst 
affection, and for this plain reason, because 

24 



she is still possessed of those noble qualities 
improved to a much higher degree, which 
first inspired my atfection for her. 

Oh ! happy state, when souls each other draw. 
When love is liberty, and nature law. 

I know were I to speak in such a style to 
many a girl, who thinks herself possessed of 
no small share of sense, she would think 
it ridiculous ; but the language of the heart 
is, my dear E., the only courtship I shall 
ever use to you. 

\\'hen I look over what I have written, I 
am sensible it is vastly different from the 
ordinary style of courtship, but I shall make 
no apology — I know your good nature will 
excuse what your good sense may see 
amiss. K. h. 



TO THE SAJIE. 

LocJdea, 1783. 

I HAVE often thought it a peculiar un- 
lucky circumstance in love, that though, in 
every other situation in life, telling the 
truth is not only the safest, but actually by 
far the easiest way of proccedmg, a lover is 
never under greater difficulty in acting, or 
more puzzled for expression, than when his 
passion is sincere, and his intentions are hon- 
ourable. 1 do not think that it is very difficult 
for a person of ordinary capacity to talk of love 
and fondness which are not felt, and to make 
vows of constancy and fidelity which are 
never intended to be performed, if he be 
villain enough to practice such detestable 
conduct ; but to a man whose heart glows 
with the principles of integrity and truth, 
and who sincerely loves a woman of atuiable 
person, uncommon refinement of sentiment 
and purity of manners — to such a one, in 
such circumstances, I can assure you, my 
dear, from my own feelings at this present 
moment, courtship is a task indeed. There 
is such a number of foreboding fears and 
distrustful anxieties crowd into my mind 
when I am in your company, or when I 
sit down to write to you, that what to speak, 
or what to write, I am altogether at a loss. 

There is one rule which I have hitherto 
practised, and which I shall invariably 
keep with you, and that is, honestly to tell 
you the plain truth. There is something 
so mean and unmanly in the arts of dissimu- 
lation and falsehood, that I am surprised 
they can be acted by any one, in so noble, so 
generous a passion, as virtuous love. No, 
my dear E., 1 shall ue\er endeavour to 



2G8 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



gain your favour by such detestable practices. 
If you will be so good, and so generous, 
as to admit me for your partner, your 
companion, your bosom friend through life, 
there is nothing on this side of eternity 
shall give me greater transport ; but I shall 
never think of purchasing your hand by 
any arts unworthy of a man, and, I will add, 
of a Christian, There is one thing, my dear, 
which I earnestly request of you, and it is 
this, that you would soon either put an end 
to my hopes by a peremptory refusal, or cure 
me of my fears by a generous consent. 

It would oblige me much if you would 
scud me a line or two when convenient. 
1 shall only add farther, that, if a behaviour 
regulated (though perhaps but very imper- 
fectly) by the rules of honour and virtue, if 
a heart devoted to love and esteem you, 
and an earnest endeavour to promote your 
happiness — if these are qualities you wish in 
a friend, in a husband, I hope you shall ever 
find them in your real frieud and sincere 
lover, R. B. 



NO. V. 

TO THE SAME. 

LocJdea, 1783. 

I OUGHT, in good manners, to have ac- 
knowledged the receipt of your letter before 
this time, but my heart was so shocked with 
the contents of it, that I can scarcely yet 
collect my thoughs so as to wi-ite to you on the 
subject. I will not attempt to describe what 
I felt on receiving your letter. I read it 
over and over, again and again, aiul though 
it was in the politest language of refusal, 
still it was peremptory : "you were sorry you 
could not make me a return, but you wish 
me" — what, without you,I never can obtain — 
"you wish me all kind of happiness." It 
would be weak and unmanly to say that 
without you I never can be happy ; but sure 
I am, that sharing life with you would have 
given it a relish, that, wanting you, I can 
never taste. 

Your uncommon personal advantages, and 
your superior good sense, do not so much 
strike me : these, possibly, may be met with 
in a few instances in others ; but that amia- 
ble goodness, that tender feminine softness, 
that endearing sweetness of disposition, with 
all the charming offspring of a warm feeling 
heart — these 1 never again expect to meet 
wiih, in such a degree, in this world. All 
these charming qualities, heightened by an 
education much beyond any thing I have 
ever met m any woman I ever dared to 



approach, have made an impres.^ion on my 
heart that I do not think the world can ever 
efface. My imagination has fondly flattered 
myself with a wish, I dare not say it ever 
reached a hope, that possibly I might one 
day call you mine. I had formed the most 
delightful images, and my fancy fondly 
brooded over them ; but now I am wretched 
for the loss of what I really had no right to 
expect. I must now think no more of you 
as a mistress ; still I presume to ask to be 
admitted as a friend. As such I wish to be 
allowed to wait on you ; and as I expect to 
remove in a few days a little further off, and 
you, I suppose, will soon leave this place, I 
wish to see or hear from you soon : and if 
an expression should perhaps escape me, 
rather too warm for friendship, I hope you 
will pardon it in, my dear Miss — (pardon me 
the dear expression for once) * * * R. B. 



NO. VI. 

TO MR. JAMES BURNESS, 

WRITER, MONTROSE. (1) 

Lochlea, 2\st June, 1783. 

Dear Sir. — My father received your 
favour of the 10th current, and as he has 
been for some months very poorly in health, 
and is in his own opinion (and, indeed, in 
almost every body's else) in a dying condi- 
tion, he has only, with great difticulty, 
wi-itten a few farewell lines to each of his 
brothers-in-law. For this melancholy reason, 
I now hold the pen for him to thank you for 
your kind letter, and to assure you. Sir, that 
it shall not be my fault if my father's cor- 
respondence in the north die with him. My 
brother writes to John Caird, and to him I 
must refer you for the news of our family. 

I shall only trouble you with a few par- 
ticulars relative to the wretched state of this 
country. Our markets are exceedingly high 
— oatmeal, 17d. and 18d. per peck, and not 
to be got even at that price.* We have indeed 
been pretty well supplied with quantities of 
white peas from England and elsewhere, but 
that resource is likely to fail lis, and what 
will become of us then, particularly the very 
poorest sort. Heaven only knows. This 
country, till of late, was flourishing incre- 
dibly in the manufacture of silk, lawn, 
and carpet-weaving; and we are still car- 
rying on a good deal in that way, but 
much reduced from what it was. We had 
also a fine trade in the shoe way, but now 
entirely ruined, and hundreds driven to a 



LETTER TO JIR. BURNKSS. 



269 



starving condition on account of it. Farming 
is also at a very low ebb with ns. Our lands, 
generally speaking, are mountainous and 
barren ; and our landholders, full of ideas of 
farming gathered from the English and the 
TjOthians, and other rich soils in Scotland, 
nuike no allowance for the odds of the quality 
of land, and consequently stretch us much 
beyond what in the event we will be found 
able to pay. We are also much at a loss for 
want of proper methods in our improvements 
of farming. Necessity compels ns to leave 
our old schemes, and few of us have oppor- 
tunities of being well informed in new ones. 
In short, my dear Sir, since the unfortunate 
beginning of this American war, and its as 
unfortunate conclusion, this country has 
been, and still is, decaying very fast. Even 
in higher life, a couple of our Ayrshire noble- 
men, and the major part of our knights and 
squires, are all insolvent. A miserable job 
of a Douglas, Heron, and Co.'s bank, which 
no doubt you have heard of, has undone 
numbers of them; and imitating English and 
French, and other foreign luxuries and fop- 
peries, has ruined as many more. There is a 
great trade of smuggling carried on along our 
coasts, which, however destructive to the 
interests of the kingdom at large, certainly 
enriches this corner of it, but too often at 
the expense of our morals. However, it 
enables individuals to make, at least for a 
time, a splendid appearance ; but Fortune, 
as is usual with her when she is uncommonly 
lavish of her favours, is generally even with 
them at the last : and happy were it for 
numbers of them if she would leave them no 
worse than when she found them. 

My mother sends you a small present of a 
cheese ; 'tis but a very little one, as our last 
year's stock is sold off; but if you could fix 
on any correspondent in Edinburgh or Glas- 
gow, we would send you a proper one in the 
season. Airs. Black promises to take the 
cheese under her care so far, and then to 
send it to you by the Stirling carrier. 

I shall conclude this long letter with assur- 
ing you that I shall be very happy to hear 
from you, or any of our friends in your 
country, when opportunity serves. 

Jly father sends you, probably for the last 
time in this world, his warmest wishes for 
your welfare and happiness; and my mother 
and the rest of the family desire to enclose 
their kind compliments to you, Mrs. Burness, 
and the rest of your family, along with those 
o^ dear Sir, your affectionate cousin, 

R. B. 



TO MR. JAMES BURNESS, MON- 
TROSE. 

LocMea, 17 th Fehniary, 1784. 

Dear Cousin. — I would have returned 
you my thanks for your kind favour of the 
13th of December sooner, had it not been 
that I waited to give you an account of that 
melancholy event, which, for some time past, 
we have from day to day expected. 

On the 13th current 1 lost the best of 
fathers. Though, to be sure, we have had 
long warning of the impending stroke, still 
the feelings of nature claim their part, and I 
cannot recollect the tender endearments and 
parental lessons of the best of friends and 
ablest of instructors, without feeling what 
perhaps the calmer dictates of reason would 
partly condemn. 

I hope my father's friends in your country 
will not let their connexion in this place die 
with him. For my part I shall ever with 
pleasure, with pride, acknowledge my con- 
nexion with those who were allied by the ties 
of blood and friendship to a man whose 
memory I shall ever honour and revere. 

I expect, therefore, my dear Sir, you will 
not neglect any opportunity of letting me 
hear from you, which will very much oblige, 
my dear cousin, yours sincerely, R. E. 



TO MR. JAMES BURNESS, MON- 
TROSE. 

Mossgicl, Aurjust, 1784. 
We have been surprised with one of the 
most extraordinary phenomena in the moral 
world, which, I dare say, has happened in the 
course of this half century. We have had a 
party of Presbytery relief, as they call them- 
selves, for some time in this country. A 
pretty thriving society of them has been in 
the burgh of Irvine for some years past, (ill 
about two years ago a Mrs. Buchan from 
Glasgow came among them, and began to 
spread some fanatical notions of religion 
among them, and, in a short time, made 
many converts ; and among others their 
preacher, Mr ^'\'hite, who, upon that account, 
has been suspended and formally deposed by 
his brethren. He continued, however, to 
preach in private to his party, and was sup- 
ported, both he and their spiritual mother, 
as they affect to call old Bnchan, by the 
contributions of the rest, several of whom 



270 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



were in good circumstances ; till in spring 
last, the populace rose and mobbed Mrs. 
Buclian, and put her out of the town ; on 
which all her followers voluntarily quitted 
the place likewise, and with such precipita- 
tion, that many of them never shut their 
doors behind them; one left a washing on the 
green, another a cow bellowing at the crib 
without food, or any body to mind her, and 
after several stages, they are fixed at present 
in the neighbourhood of Dumfries. Their 
tenets are a strange jumble of enthusiastic 
jargon ; among others, she pretends to give 
them tlie Holy Ghost by breathing on them, 
which she does with postures and practices 
that are scandalously indecent. They have 
likewise disposed of all their effects, and hold 
a community of goods, and live nearly an 
idle life, carrying on a great farce of pre- 
tended devotion in barns and woods, where 
they lodge and lie all together, and hold 
likewise a community of women, as it is 
another of their tenets that they can commit 
no moral sin. I am personally acquainted 
with most of them, and I can assure you the 
above mentioned are facts. 

This, my dear Sir, is one of the many 
instances of the folly of leaving the guidance 
of sound reasoa and common sense in mat- 
ters of religion. 

Whenever we neglect or despise these 
sacred monitors, the whimsical notions of a 
perturbated brain are taken for the immedi- 
ate influences of the Deity, and the wildest 
fanaticism, and the most inconstant absurdi- 
ties, will meet with abettors and converts. 
Nay, I have often thought, that the more 
out-of-the-way and ridiculous the fancies 
are, if once they are sanctified under the 
sacred name of religion, the unhappy mis- 
taken votaries are the more firmly glued to 
them. R. B. 



rO JIR. JAMES SMITH, MAUCH- 

LINE. 

Mossgiel, Monday Morning, 1786. 
My Dear Sir. — I went to Dr. Douglas 
yesterday, fully resolved to take the oppor- 
tunity of Captain Smith ; but I found the 
Doctor with a Mr. and Mrs. White, both 
Jamaicans, and they have deranged my plans 
altogether. They assure him that to send 
me from Savannah la Mar to Port Antonio, 
will cost my master, Charles Douglas, up- 
wards of fifty pounds, besides running the 
risk of throwing myself into a pleuritic fever. 



in consequence of hard travelling in tha 
sun. On these accounts, he refuses sending 
me with Smith ; but a vessel sails from 
Greenock the 1st of September, right for 
the place of my destination. The captam 
of her is an intimate friend of ]\Ir. Gavin 
Hamilton's, and as good a fellow as heart 
could wish : with him I am destined to go. 
Where I shall shelter I know not, but I 
hope to weather the storm. Perish the drop 
of blood of mine that fears them ! I know 
their worst, and am prepared to meet it :— 

I'll laugh, and sing, and shake my leg. 
As lang's I dow. 

On Thursday morning, if you can muster 
as much self-denial as to be out of bed about 
seven o'clock, I shall see you as I ride 
through to Cumnock. After all, Heaven 
bless the sex I I feel there is still happiness 
for me among them : — 

Oh woman, lovely woman ! Heaven designed 
you 

To temper man ! — we had been brutes with- 
out you 1 

R.B. 



TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND, EDIN- 
BURGH. (2) 

Mossgiel, February 17, 1786. 

My dear Sir. — I have not time at 
present to iqiljraid you for your silence and 
neglect ; I shall only say I received yours 
with great pleasure. I have enclosed you a 
piece of rlij'ining ware for your perusal. I 
have been very busy with the muses since I 
saw you, and have composed, among several 
others: — The Ordination, a poem on Mr. 
M'Kinlay's being called to Kilmarnock; 
Scotch Drink, a poem; The Cotter's Saturday 
Night ; An Address to the Devil, &c. I 
have likewise completed my poem on the 
Dogs, but have not shown it to the world. 
My chief patron now is ]\Ir. Aiken in Ajt, 
who is pleased to express great approbation 
of my works. Be so good as send me 
Fergusson, by Connel, and I will remit you 
the money. I have no news to acquaint you 
with about IMauchline; they are just going 
on in the old way. I have some very im- 
portant news with respect to myself, not the 
most agreeable — news that I am sure you 
cannot guess, but I shall give you the pnr- 
ticulars another time. I am extremely 
happy with Smith ; he is the only friend I 



LETTER TO MR. AIKEN. 



271 



nave now in Mauchline. I can scarcely forgive 
your long neglect of me, and I beg you will 
let me hear from you regularly by Connel. 
If you would act your part as a friend, I am 
sure neitlier good nor bad fortune should 
strange or alter me. Excuse haste, as I got 
your's but yesterday. I am, my dear Sir, 
your's, 

Robert Burns. 



NO. XI. 

TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 

Mossrjiel, 3rd March, 1786, 

Sir. — I have done myself the pleasure of 
complying with your request in sending you 
my Cottager. If you have a leisiue minute, 
I should be glad if you would copy it and 
return me either the original or the trans- 
cript, as I have not a copy of it by me, and 
I have a friend who wishes to see it. 

Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse 

E'er bring you in by Mauchline Corse (3), 

Lord, man, there's lasses there wad force 

A hermit's fancy ; 
\nd down the gate, in faith, they're worse. 

And mair unchancy. 

But, as I'm sayin', please step to Dow's, 
And taste sic beer as Johnnie brews. 
Till some bit callan bring me news 

That you are there ; 
And if we dinna baud a bouze, 

I'll ne'er drink mair. 

It's no I like to sit and swallow, 
Tlien like a swine to puke and wallow ; 
But gie me just a true good fallow, 

AA'i' right engine. 
And spunkie aiice to make us mellow. 

And then we'll shine. 

Now, if you're ane o' warld's folk, 
Wiia rate the wearer by the cloak. 
And sklent on poverty their joke, 

AVi' bitter sneer, 
\Vi' you no friendship will I troke, 

Nor cheap nor dear. 

But if, as I'm informed weel. 
Ye hate, as ill's the vera deil. 
The flinty heart that catina feel. 

Come, Sir, here's tae you ! 

Hae, there's my haun', I wiss you weel. 

And guid be wi' you ! 

R. B. 



TO MR. ROBERT MUIR, KILMAR, 

NOCK. 

Mossgiel, 20th March, 1786. 

Dear Sir. — I am heartily sorry I had not 
the pleasure of seeing you as you returned 
through Mauchline ; but as I was engaged, 
I could not be in town before the evening. 

I here enclose you my "Scotch Drhik," 

and "may the follow" with a blessing for 

your edification. I hope, some time before 
we hear the gowk, to have the pleasure of 
seeing you at Kilmarnock, when I intend we 
shall have a gill between us in a mutchkin- 
stoiip, which will be a great comfort and 
consolation to, dear Sir, your humble servant, 
Robert Burns. 



NO. xm. 
TO MR. AIKEN. 



Mossgiel, 3rd April, 1786.. 

Dear Sir. — I received your kind letter 
with double pleasure on account of the 
second flattering instance of Mrs. C.'s notice 
and approbation. I assure you I 

Turn out the burnt side o' my skin, 

as the famous Ramsay, of jingling memory, 
says, at such a patroness. Present her my 
most grateful acknowledgements, in your 
very best manner of telling truth. I have 
inscribed the following stanza on the blank 
leaf of Miss More's work : — 

Thou flattering mark of friendship kind. 
Still may thy pages call to mind 
The dear, the beauteous donor. 
Though sweetly female every part. 
Yet such a head, and more the heart. 

Does both the sexes honour. 
She showed her taste refined and just 

AATien she selected thee. 
Yet deviating own I must. 
For so approving me ; 

But kind still, I mind still. 

The giver in the gift — 

I'll bless her, and wiss her 

A friend above the Lift. 

!My proposals for publishing I am just 
going to send to press. I expect to hear 
from you by the first opportunity. I am, 
ever dear Sir, your's, Robert Burns. 



272 



COERESPONDENCE OF BUIINS. 



TO MR. M'WHINNIE, WRITER, AYR, 

Mossgiel, \1th April, 1786. 

It is injuring some hearts, those hearts 
that elegantly bear the iinnression of the 
good Creator, to say to thera you give them 
the trouble of obliging a friend ; for tliis 
reason, I only tell you that I gratify my own 
feelings in requesting your friendly offices 
with respect to the enclosed, because I 
know it will gratify yours to aasist me in it 
to the utmost of your power. 

I have sent you four copies, as I have no 
less than eight dozen, which is a great deal 
more than I shall ever need. 

Be sure to remember a poor poet militant 
in your prayers. He looks forward with 
fear and trembling to that, to him, important 
moment which stamps the die with — with— 
with, perhaps, the eternal disgrace of, my 
dear Sir, your humble, afllicted, tormented, 
Robert Burns. 



NO. XV. 

TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 

Mossgiel, 20th April, 1786. 

Sir. — ^By some neglect in Mr. Hamilton, I 
did not hear of your kind request for a sub- 
scription paper till this day. I will not 
attempt any acknowledgement for this, nor 
the manner in which I see your name in Mr. 
Hamilton's subscription list. Allow me 
only to say. Sir, I feel the weight of the debt. 

I have here, likewise, enclosed a small 
piece, the very latest of my productions. (4) 
I am a good deal pleased with some senti- 
ments myself, as they are just the native 
querulous feelings of a heart, which, as the 
elegantly melting Gray says, "melancholy 
has marked out for her own." 

Our race comes on apace — that much 
expected scene of revelry and mirth : but 
to me it brings no joy equal to that meeting 
with which you last flattered the expecta- 
tion of. Sir, your indebted humble servant. 
R. B. 



NO. XVI. 

TO JOHN BALLANTINE, OP AYR. 

June, 1786. 

Honoured Sir. — My proposals came to 
band last night, and, knowing that you 
would wish to have it in your power to do 
me a service as early as any body, I enclose 



you half a sheet of them. I must consult 
you, first opportunity, on the propriety of 
sending my quondam friend, Mr. Aiken, a 
copy. If he is now reconciled to my charac- 
ter as an honest man, I would do it with all 
my soul ; but I would not be beholden to 
the noblest being ever God created, if he 
imagined me to be a rascal. Apropos, old 
Mr. Armour prevailed with him to mutilate 
that unlucky paper yesterday. Would you 
believe it? — though I had not a hope, nor 
even a wish, to make her mine after her con- 
duct, yet, when he told me the names were 
all out of the paper, my heart died within 
me, and he cut my veins with the news. 
Perdition seize her falshood. 

R.B. 



TO MR. DAVID BRICE. (5) 

Mossgiel, June 12, 1786. 

Dear Brice. — I received your message 
by G. Paterson, and as I am not very 
strong at present, I just write to let you 
know that there is such a worthless, rhyming 
reprobate, as your humble servant, still in 
the land of the living, though I can scarcely 
say in the place of hope. I have no news 
to tell you that will give me any pleasure to 
mention, or you to hear. 

Poor ill-advised, ungrateful Armour came 
home on Friday last. (6) You have heard 
all the particulars of that affair, and a black 
affair it is. What she thinks of her conduct 
now I don't know ; one thing I do know — • 
she has made me completely miserable. 
Never man loved, or rather adored, a woman 
more than I did her ; and, to confess a truth 
between you and me, 1 do still love her to 
distraction after all, though I won't tell her 
so if I were to see her, which I don't want 
to do. My poor dear unfortunate Jean! 
how happy have I been in thy arms ! It is 
not the losing her that makes me so unhappy, 
but for her sake I feel most severely : I 
foresee she is in the road to, I am afraid, 
eternal ruin. 

May Almighty God forgive her ingratitude 
and perjury to me, as I from my very soul 
forgive her ; and may his grace be with her 
and bless her in all her future life 1 I can 
have no nearer idea of the place of eternal 
punishment than what I have felt in my own 
breast on her account. I have tried often to 
forget her; I have run into all kinds of 
dissipation and riots, mason-meetings, drink- 
ing-matches, and other mischief, to drive her 
out of my head, but all in vain. And now 



TO MR. DAVID BUICE. 



273 



for a grand cure : the ship is on lier way 
home tliut is to take me out to Jamaica ; 
and then, farewell dear old Scotland ! and 
farewell, dear ungrateful Jean, for never, 
never will I see you more. 

You will have lieard that I am going to 
commence poet in jirint ; and to-morrow my 
works go to the press. I expect it will be a 
volume of about 200 pages — it is just the 
last foolish action I intend to do ; and then 
turn a wise man as fast as possible. Believe 
me to be, dear Jirice, your fr'end and well- 
wisher, R. B. 



NO. XVIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

OF DUNLOP. 

Aijrsliire, July, 1786. 

Madam. — I am truly sorry I was not at 
home yesterday, when I was so much 
honoured with your order for my copies, and 
incomparably more by the handsome com- 
pliments you are pleased to pay my poetic 
abilities. I am fully persuaded that there is 
not any class of mankind so feelingly alive 
to the titiilations of applause as the sons of 
Parnassus : nor is it easy to conceive how 
the heart of the poor bard dances with 
rapture, when those whose character in life 
gives them a right to be pohte judges, 
honour him with their approbation. Had 
you been thoroughly acquainted with me. 
Madam, you could not have touched my 
darling heart-chord more sweetly than by 
noticing my attempts to celebrate your 
illustrious ancestor, the saviour of his 
country. 

Great patriot hero ! ill- requited chief! 

The first book I met with in my early years, 
which I perused with pleasure, was " The 
Life of Hannibal;" the next was "The 
History of Sir William Wallace ;" for several 
of my earlier years I had few other authors ; 
and many a solitary hour have I stole out, 
after the laborious vocations of the day, to 
shed a tear over their glorious, but unfortu- 
nate stories. In those boyish days I re- 
niember, in particular, being struck with 
that part of \A'allace'3 story where these lines 
occur : — 

Syne to the Ix-glen wood, when it was late. 
To make a silent and a safe retreat. 

I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day 
my line of life allowed, and walked half-a- 
dozen of miles to pay my respects to the 
I^glen wood, with as much devout enthu- 



siasm as ever pilgrim did to Loretto ; and as 
I explored every den and dell where I could 
suppose my heroic countryniiiu to have 
lotlged, 1 recollect (for even then I was a 
rhymer) that my heart glowed with a wish 
to be able to make a song on him in some 
measure equal to his merits. K B. 



TO JOHN RICHMOND, EDINBURGH. 

Mossgiel, July Qth, 1786. 

With the sincerest grief I read your 
letter. You a^e truly a son of misfortune. 
[ shall be extremely anxious to hear from 
you how your health goes on — if it is any 
way re-establishing, or if Leith promises well 
— in short, how you feel in the inner man. 

I have waited on Armour since her return 
home; not from the least; view of reconcilia- 
tion, but merely to ask for her health, and, 
to you I will confess it, from a foolish 
hankering fondness, very ill placed indeed. 
The mother forbade me the house, nor did 
Jean show that penitence that might have 
been expected. However, the priest, I am 
informed, will give me a certificate as a 
single man, if I comply with the rules of the 
church, which, for that very reason, I intend 
to do. 

1 am going to put on sackcloth and ashes 
this day. I am indulged so far as to appear 
in my owji seat. Peccavi, pater; miserere 
mei. My book will be ready in a fortnight. 
If you have any subscribers, return them by 
Connell. The Lord stand with the riglitft 
ous — amen, amen. R. B. 



NO. XX. 

TO nn. DAVID BRICE, 

SHOEMAKER, GLASGOW. 

Mossgiel, July \lth, 1786. 

I HAVE been so throng printing my 
Poems, that I could scarcely find as much 
time as to write to you. Poor Armour is 
come back again to ]\Iauchline, and I went 
to call for her, and her mother forbade me 
the house, nor did she herself express much 
sorrow for what she has done. I have 
already appeared publicly in church, and was 
indulged in the liberty of standing in my 
own seat. I do this to get a certificate as a 
bachelor, which Mr. Auld has promised me. 
I am now fixed to go for the West Indies in 



-d 



274 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS, 



October. Jeaii and her friends insisted 
much that she should stand along with me 
in the kirk, but the minister would not allow 
it, which bred a great trouble, I assure you, 
and 1 am blamed as the cause of it, though 
I am sure I am innocent ; but I am very 
mucli pleased, for all that, not to have had 
her company. I have no news to tell you 
that I remember. I am really happy to 
hear of your welfare, and that you are so 
well in Glasgow. I must certainly see you 
before I leave the country. I shall expect 
to hear from you soon, and am, dear Ej-ice, 
yours, K. B. 



NO. XXI. 

TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND. 

Old Rome Forest, July SOth, 1786. 

My Dear Richmond. — My hour is now 
come — you and I will never meet in Britain 
more. I have orders within tliree weeks at 
farthest, to repair aboard the Nancy, Captain 
Smith, from Clyde to Jamaica, and to call at 
Antigua. This, except to our friend Smith, 
whom God long preserve, is a secret about 
Mauchliiie. Would you believe it? Armour 
has got a warrant to throw me in jail till I 
find security for an enormous sum. This 
they keep an entire secret, but I got it by a 
channel they little dream of; and I am 
wandering from one friend's house to another, 
and, like a true son of the gospel, " have no- 
where to lay my head." I know you will 
pour an execration on her bead, but spare 
the poor, ill-advised girl, for my sake; 
though may all the furies that rend the 
injured, enraged mother's bosom, await her 
mother until her latest hour ! I write in a 
moment of rage, reflecting on my miserable 
situation — exiled, abandoned, forlorn. I can 
write no more — let me hear from you by the 
return of coach. I will write you ere I go. 
I am, dear Sir, yours, here and hereafter, 
R.B. 



TO MR. ROBERT MUIR, KILMAR- 
NOCK. 

Mossgiel, Friday Morniny, [Auy. 1786.] 

My Friend, my Brother — Warm 
recollection of an absent friend presses so 
hard upon my heart, that I send him the 
prefixed bagatelle (The Calfj, pleased with 
the thought that it wdl greet the man of my 
bosom, and be a kind of distant language of 
friendship. 



You will have heard that poor \rinour 
has repaid me double. A very line boy and 
a girl have awakened a thought and feelings 
that thrill, some with tender pressure, and 
some with foreboding anguish, through my 
soul. 

The poem was nearly an extemporaneous 
production, on a wager with Mr. Hamilton, 
tiiat I would not produce a poem on the 
subject in a given time. 

If you think it worth while, read it to 
Charles and ^Mr W. Parker, and if they 
choose a copy of it, it is at their service, as 
they are men whose friendship I shall be 
protid to claim, both in this world and that 
which is to come. 

I believe all hopes of staying at home, will 
be abortive ; but more of this when, in the 
latter part of next week, you shall be trou- 
bled with a visit from, my dear Sir, your 
most devoted, R. B. 



NO. XXIII. 

TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 

Kilmarnock, August, 1786. 

My Dear Sir. — Your truly facetious 
epistle of the 3rd instant gave me much 
entertainment. I was only sorry I had not 
the pleasure of seeing you as I passed your 
way, but we shall bring up all our lee-way 
on Wednesday, the 16th current, when I 
hope to have it in my power to call on you, 
and take a kind, very probably, a last adieu, 
before I go to Jamaica ; and I expect orders 
to repair to Greenock every day. I have at 
last made my public appearance, and am 
solemnly ioangurated into the numerous 
class. Could I have got a carrier, you 
should have had a score of vouchers for my 
authorship ; but, now you have them, let 
them speak for themselves. 

Farewell, dear friend ! may guid luck hit you. 
And 'mang her favourites admit yo\i. 
If e'er Detraction shore to smit you. 

May nane believe him. 
And ony deil that thinks to get you. 

Good Lord, deceive him. 



NO. XXIV. 

TO MR BURNESS, ]\IONTROSE. 

Mossgiel, Tuesday noon, Sfpt. '26, 1786. 

My Dear Sir. — I this moment receive 
yours — receive it with the honest hospitable 
warmth of a friend's welcome. Whatever 



TO MR. EGBERT AIKEN. 



275 



comes from you wakens always up the bet- 
ter blood about my heart, which your kind 
little recollections of my parental friends 
carries as far as it will go. 'Tis there that 
man is blest ! — "I'is there, my friend, man 
feels a consciousness of something within 
him above the trodden clod ! The grateful 
reverence to the hoary (earthly) author of 
his being — the burning glow when he clasps 
the woman of his soul to his bosom — the 
tender yearnings of heart for the little angels 
to whom he has given existence — these 
nature has poured in milky streams about 
the human heart ; and the man who never 
rouses them to action, by the inspiring in- 
fluences of their proper objects, loses by far 
the most pleasurable part of his existence. 

My departure is uncertain, but I do not 
think it will be till after harvest. I will be 
on very short allowance of time indeed, if I 
do not comply with your friendly invitation. 
When it will be, I don't know, but if I can 
make my wish good, I will endeavour to drop 
you a line some time before. My best com- 
pliments to Mrs. B.; I should be equally 
mortified should I drop in when she is 
abroad ; but of that I suppose there is little 
chance. 

What I have wrote Heaven knows ; I have 
not time to review it ; so accept of it in the 
beaten way of friendship. Witii the ordinary 
phrase — perhaps rather more than the 
ordinary sincerity — I am, dear Sir, ever 
yours, R. B. 



NO. XXV. 

TO MR ROBERT AIKEN. (7) 

AyrsJiire, 1786. 
Si r. — I was with Wilson my printer t'other 
day, and settled all our bygone matters be- 
tween ns. After I had paid him all demands, 
I made him the offer of the second edition, 
on the hazard of being paid out of the first 
and readiest, which he declines. By his 
account, the paper of 1000 copies would cost 
about twenty-seven pounds, and the printing 
about fifteen or sixteen ; he offers to agree 
to this for the printing, if I will advance for 
the paper, but this you know, is out of my 
power ; so farewell hopes of a second edition 
till I grow richer ! an epoch which I think 
will arrive at the payment of the British 
national debt. 

' There is scarcely any thing hurts me so 
much in being disappointed of ray second 
edition, as not having it in my power to 
show my gratitude to Mr. Ballantine, by 
publishing my poem of the Brigs of Ayr. 



I would detest myself as a wretch, if I 
thought I were capable, in a ver> long life of 
forgetting the honest, warm, and tender deli- 
cacy with which he enters into my interests. 
I am sometimes pleased with myself in my 
grateful sensations ; but I believe, on the 
whole, I have very little merit in it, as my 
gratitude is not a virtue, the consequcTice of 
reflection, but sheerly the instinctive emotion 
of my heart, too inattentive to allow worldly 
maxims and views to settle into selfish habits. 

1 have heen feeling all the various rota- 
tions and movements within, respecting the 
excise. There are many things plead strongly 
against it; the uncertainty of getting soon 
into business ; the consequences of my fol- 
lies, which may perhaps make it impracticible 
for me to stay at home ; and besides, I have 
for some time been pining under secret 
wretchedness, from causes which you pretty 
well know : — the pang of disappointment, the 
sting of pride, with some wandering stabs of 
remorse, which never fail to settle on my 
vitals like vultures, when attention is not 
called away by the calls of society, or the 
vagaries of the muse. Even in the hour of 
social mirth, my gaiety is the madness of an 
intoxicated criminal under the hands of the 
executioner. All these reasons urge me to 
go abroad, and to all thase reasons 1 have 
only one answer — the feelings of a father. 
This, in the present mood I am in, over- 
balances every thing that can be laid in the 
scale against it. 

You may perhaps think it an extravagant 
fancy, but it is a sentiment which strikes 
home to my very soul ; thougli sceptical in 
some points of our current belief, yet I think 
I have every evidence for the reality of a life 
beyond the stiuted bourne of our present 
existence : if so, then, how should 1 in the 
presence of that tremendous Being, the Au- 
thor of existence, how should 1 meet the 
reproaches of those who stand to me in t!ie 
dear relation of children, whom I deserted i:i 
the smiling innocency of helpless infancy ' 
Oh thou great unknown Power! — thou Al- 
mighty God ! who hast lighted up reason in 
my breast, and blessed me with immortality! 
— I Itave frequently wandered from tliat 
order and regularity necessary for the per- 
fection of thy works, yet thou hast never left 
me nor forsaken me ! 

Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have 
seen something of the storm of mischkf 
thickening over my folly- devoted head. 
Should you, my friends, my benefactors, be 
successful in your applications for me (3), 
perhaps it may not be in my power in that 
way, to reap the fruit of your friendly efforts. 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



\ h;it I have written in the preceding pages 
i> the fettled tenor of my present resolution ; 
but should inimical circumstances forbid me 
closing with your kind offer, or enjoying it 
only threaten to entail further misery * * * 

To tell the truth, I have little reason for 
complaint ; as the world, in general, lias 
been kind to me fully up to my deserts. I 
was, for some time past, fast getting into 
the pining, distrustful snarl of the misan- 
thrope. I saw myself alone, unfit for the 
struggle of life, shrinking at every rising 
cloud in the chance-directed atmosphere of 
fortune, while, all defenceless, I looked about 
in vain for a cover. It never occurred to me, 
at least never with the force it deserved, that 
this world is a busy scene, and man a crea- 
ture destined for a progressive struggle ; and 
that, however I might possess a warm heart 
and inoffensive manners (which last, by the 
bye, was rather more than I could well 
boast), still, more than these passive quali- 
ties, there was something to be done. When 
all my school-fellows and youthful compeers 
(those misguided few excepted, who joined, 
to use a Gentoo phrase, the " hallachores" of 
the human race) were striking off with eager 
hope and earnest intent, in some one or other 
of the many paths of busy life, I was " stand- 
ing idle in the market-place," or only left 
the chase of the butterfly from flower to 
flower, to hunt fancy from whim to whim. 

You see. Sir, that if to know one's errors 
were a probability of mending them, I stand 
a fair chance ; but according to the reverend 
Westminster divines, though conviction must 
precede conversion, it is very far from always 
implying it. R. B. 



TO MRS. STEWART, OF STAIR. 

1786. 
Madam. — ITie hurry of my preparations 
for going abroad has hindered me from per- 
forming my promise so soon as I intended. 
I have here sent you a parcel of songs, &c., 
^A'hich never made their appearance, except 
to a friend or two at most. Perhaps some 
of them may be no great entertainment to 
you, but of that I am far from being an ade- 
quate judge. The song to the tune of Ettrick 
Banks (I'he Bonnie Lass of Ballochmyle), 
you will easily see the impropriety of exposing 
much, even in manuscript. I think, myself, 
it has some merit, both as a tolerable des- 
cription of one of nature's sweetest scenes, a 
July evening, and one of the finest pieces of 



nature's workmanship, the finest indeed we 
know anything of, an amiable, beautiful 
young woman (9) ; but I have no common 
friend to procure me that permission, with- 
out which I would not dare to spread the 
copy. 

I am quite aware. Madam, what task the 
world would assign me in this letter. The 
obscure bard, when any of the great conde- 
scend to take notice of him should heap the 
altar with the incense of flattery. Their 
high ancestry, their own great and god-like 
qualities and actions, should be recounted 
with the most exaggerated description. This, 
Madam, is a task for which I am altogether 
unfit. Besides a certain disqualifying pride 
of heart, I know nothing of your connexions 
in life, and have no access to where your 
real character is to be found — the company 
of your compeers; and more, I am afraid 
that even the most refined adulation is by no 
means the road to your good opinion. 

One feature of your character I shall ever 
with grateful pleasure remember — the recep- 
tion I got when I had the honour of waiting 
on you at Stair. I am little acquainted with 
politeness, but I know a good deal of benevo- 
lence of temper and goodness of heart. Surely 
did those in exalted stations know how happy 
they could make some classes of their 
inferiors by condescension and affability, 
they would never stand so high, measuring 
out with every look the height of their ele- 
vation, but condescend as sweetly as did 
Mrs. Stewart of Stair. R. B. 



NO. XXVII. 

In the name op the NINE. Amen. 

We, Robert Burns, by virtue of a warrant 
from Nature, bearing date the twenty-fifth 
day of January, anno domini one thousand 
seven hundred and fifty-nine (10), Poet 
Laureat, and Bard-in-Chief, in and over the 
districts and countries of Kyle, Cunningham, 
and Carrick, of old extent. To our trusty and 
well-beloved William Chalmers and John 
M'Adam, students and practitioners in the 
ancient and mysterious science of confound- 
ing Wright and wrong. 

Right Trusty — Be it known unto you. 
That whereas in the course of our care and 
watchings over the order and police of all 
and sundry the manufacturers, retainers, and 
venders of poesy ; bards, poets, poetasters, 
rhymers, jinglers, songsters, ballad-singers, 
&c. &c. &c. &c., male and female — We have 
discovered a certain nefarious, abominable, 



TO JOHN BALLATINE, iiSQ. 



277 



atirt wicked song or ballad, a copy wliereof 
We have here enclosed; Our Will therefore 
is that ye pitch upon and appoint the most 
execrable individual of that most execrable 
species, known by the appellation, phrase, 
and nickname of The Deil's Yell Nowte (11): 
and after having caused him to kindle a fire 
at the Cross of Ayr, ye shall, at noon-tide of 
tlie day, put into the said wretch's merciless 
hands the said copy of the said nefarious 
and wicked song, to be consumed by fire in 
presence of all beholders, in abhorrence of, 
and terror to, all such compositions and 
composers. And this in nowise leave ye un- 
done, but have it executed in every point as 
this our mandiite bears, before the twenty- 
fourth current, when in person We hope to 
applaud your faitlifiihiess and zeal. 

Given at Mauchline this twentieth day of 
November, anno duiuini one thousand seven 
hundred and eighty-six. 

God save the Bard I 



NO. XXVIII. 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esa, 
MAUCHLINE. 

Edinhar(jh, Dec. "th, 1/86. 

Honoured Sir. — I have paid every at- 
tention to your commands, but can only say, 
what perhaps you will have heard before this 
reach you, tliat Muirkirklands were bought 
by a John Gordon, W. S., but for whom I 
know not ; Mauchlauds, Haugh Miln, &c., 
by a Frederick Fotheringham, supposed to 
be for Ballochmyle Laird ; And Adam-hill 
and Shawood were bought for Oswald's folks. 
lids is so imperfect an account, and will be 
80 late ere it reach you, that were it not to 
discharge my conscience I would not trouble 
you with it ; but after all my diligence I 
could make it no sooner nor better. 

Fur my own aliairs, I am in a fair way of 
becoming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis 
or John Buuy.ui ; and you may expect hence- 
fortli to see my birth-day inserted among the 
wonderlul events, in the Poor Robin's and 
Aberdeen Almanacks, along with the black 
Monday, and the battle of Bothwell-bridge. 
My Lord Glencairn and the Dean of Faculty, 
Mr. H. Erskine, have taken me under their 
wing; and by all probability I shall soon be 
the tenth worthy, and ttie eighth wise man 
of the world. Through my lord's influence, 
it is inserted in the records of the Caledonian 
Hunt, that they universally, one and all, 
subscribe for the second edition. My sub- 
scription bills come out to-morrow, and you 



shall have some of them next post. I have 
met in Mr. Dalrymyle of Orangefleld, what 
Solomon emphatically calls "a friend that 
sticketh closer than a brother." The warmt h 
with which he interests himself in my affairs 
is of the same enthusiastic kind which you, 
Mr. Aiken, and the few patrons that took 
notice of my earlier poetic days, showed for 
the poor unlucky devil of a poet. 

I always remember Mrs. Hamilton and 
Jliss Kennedy in my poetic prayers, but you 
both in prose and verse. 

May cauld ne'er catch you but a hap (12), 
Nor hunger but in plenty's lap ! 

Amen ! R E. 



NO. XXIX. 

TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq.. 
BANKER, AYR. 

Edinburgh, Bee. I3th, 1786. 

My Honoured Friend. — I would not 
write you till I could have it in ray power to 
give you some account of myself and my 
matters, which, by the bye, is often no easy 
task. I arrived here on Tuesday was se'n- 
uight, and have suffered ever since I came to 
town with a miserable head-ache and stomach 
complaint, but am now a good deal better. 
I have found a wortliy warm friend in Mr. 
Dalrymple of Orangefield, who introduced 
me to Lord Glencairn, a man whose worth 
and brotherly kindness to me I shall remem- 
ber when time shall be no more. By his 
interest it is passed in the " Caledonian 
Hunt," and entered in their books, that they 
are to take each a copy of the second edition, 
for which they are to pay one guinea. I 
have been introduced to a good many of the 
noblesse, but my avowed patrons and patro- 
nesses are, the Duchess of Gordon — the 
Countess of Glencairn, with my Lord, and 
Lady Betty (13) — the Dean of Faculty — 
Sir John Whitefoord. I have likewise warm 
friends among the literati ; Professors Stew- 
art, Blair, and Mr. Mackenzie — the " Man of 
Feeling." An unknown hand left ten guineas 
for the Ayrshire bard with Mr. Sibbald, which 
I got. I since have discovered my generous 
unknown friend to be Patrick Miller, Esq., 
brother to the Justice Clerk, — and drank a 
glass of claret with him by invitation at his 
own house yesternight. I am nearly agreed 
with Creech to print my book, and I suppose 
I will begin on Monday. I will send a 
subscription bill or two, next post ; when 
I intend writing to my first kind patron, 



C()RIU':SP()NnKXf'E OF BURNS. 



Jlr. Aiken. I saw his son to-day, and he is 
very well. 

DuiiaUl Stewart, and some of my learned 
friends, put me in the periodical paper called 
the Lounger (14,) a copy of which I here 
enclose you. I was. Sir, when I was first 
honoured with your notice, too obscure; 
now 1 tremble lest I should be ruined by 
being dragged too suddenly into the glare 
of polite and learned observation. 

I shall certainly, ray ever-honoured patron, 
write you an account of my every step ; and 
belter health and more spirits may enable 
me to make it something better than this 
stupid matter-of-fact e))istle. I have the 
honour to be, good Sir, your ever grateful 
humble servant, R. B. 

If any of my friends write me, my direc- 
tion is, care of Mr Creech, bookseller, 



NO. XXX. 

TO MR. WILLIAM CHALMERS, 
WRITER, AYR. 
Edinhwcjh, Dec. 2~tth, 1786, 
My Dear Friend. — I confess I have 
sinned the sin for which there is hardly any 
forgiveness — ingratitude to friendship — in 
not writing you sooner ; but of all men 
living, 1 had intended to have sent you an 
entertaining letter ; and by all the plodding, 
stupid powers, that in nodding conceited 
majesty preside over the dull routine of 
business — a heavily-solemn oath this ! — 1 
am and have been, ever since I came to 
Edinburgh, as uutit to write a letter of 
liumour as to write a commentary on the 
Revelation of St. John the Divine, who was 
banished to the Isle of Patinos by the cruel 
and bloody Domitian, son to Vespasian and 
brother to Titus, both emperors of Rome, 
and who was himself an emperor, and raised 
the second or third persecution, I forget 
which, against the Christians, and after 
throwing the said Apostle John, brother to 
the Apostle James, commonly called James 
the Greater, to distinguish him from another 
James, who was on some account or other 
known by the name of James the Less — 
after throwing him into a caldron of boiling 
oil, from which he was miraculously pre- 
served, he banished the poor son of Zebedee 
to a desert island in the Archipelago, where 
lie was gifted with the second sight, and saw 
as many wild beasts as I have seen since I 
came to Edinburgh; which, a — circumstance 
not very uncomuion in story-telhng — brings 
me back to where I set out. 

To make vou some amends for what. 



befo e you reach this paragraph, you wiD 
ha\e suffered, I enclose you two poems I 
have carded and spun since I passed Glen- 
buck. 

One blank in the Address to Edinburgh 

— " Fair B ," is heavenly Miss Burnet, 

daughter to Lord Jlonboddo, at whose 
house I have had the honour to be more 
than once There has not been anything 
nearly like her in all the combinations of 
beauty, grace, and goodness, the great 
Creator has formed, since Milton's Eve on 
the first day of her existence. 

Sly direction is— care of Andrew Bruce, 
merchant. Bridge Street. R. B. 



NO. XXXI. 

TO DR. MACKENZIE, MAUCHLINE; 

ENCLOSING HIM VERSES ON DINING 
WITH LORD DAER. 

Wednesduy Morning, 1787. 

Dear Sir. — I never spent an afternoon 
among great folks with half that pleasure, 
as when, in company with you, I had the 
honour of paying my devoirs to that plain, 
honest, worthy man, the professor [Dugald 
Stewart]. I would be delighted to see him 
perform acts of kindness and friendship, 
though I were not the object; he does it 
with such a grace. I think his character, 
divided into ten parts, stands thus — four 
parts Socrates — four parts Nathaniel — and 
two parts Shakspeare's Brutus. 

The foregoing verses were really ex- 
tempore, but a little corrected since. They 
may entertain you a little, with the help of 
that partiality with which you are so good 
as to favour the performances of, dear Sir, 
your very humble servant, R. B. 

NO. XXXII. 

TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esa 

January, 1787. 

While here I sit, sad and solitary, by 
the side of a fire in a little country inn, and 
drying my wet clothes, in pops a poor 
fellow of a sodger, and tells me is going to 
Ayr. By heavens I say 1 to myself, with a 
tide of good spirits which the magic of that 
sound, auld toon o' Ayr, conjured up, I will 
send my last song to Mr. Ballantine. Here 
it is — 

Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bluine sae fair ; 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
And I sae fu' of care !— &c. B. B. 



TO MRS. DUNI.UP. 



2-9 



NO. XXXIII. 

TO THE EARL OF EGLINTON. 

Edinburgh, January, 1787. 

JIy Lord. — As I have but slender pre- 
tentions to pliilnsopliy, I cannot rise to the 
exalted ideas of a citizen of the world, but 
have all those national prejudices which, 
1 believe, ^low peculiarly strong in the breast 
of a Scotchman. There is scarcely anythnij^ 
to which I am so feelingly alive as the 
honour and welfare of my country ; and as 
a poet, I have no higher enjoyment than 
singing her sons and daughters. Fate had 
cast my station in the veriest shades of 
life ; hut never did a heart pant more 
ardently than mine to be distinguished, 
though till, very lately, I looked in vain on 
every side for a ray of light. It is easy, 
then, to guess how much I was gratified 
with the countenance and approbation of 
one of my country's most illustrious sons, 
when Mr. ^^'auchope called on me yesterday 
on the part of your lordship. Your mu- 
nificence, my lord, certainly deserves my 
very grateful acknowledgments ; but your 
patronage is a bounty peculiarly suited to 
my feelings. I am not master enough of 
the etiqueite of life to know, whether there 
be not some impropriety in troubling your 
lordship with my thanks, but ray heart 
whispered me to do it. From the emotions 
of my inmost soul I do it. Selfish in- 
gratitude, I hope, 1 am incapable of; and 
mercenary ser\ility, I trust, I shall ever have 
80 mucli honest pride as to deie:;!. R. B. 



NO. XXXIV. 

TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. 
Edbibanjh, Jan. 14/A, 1737. 

JIy Ho.N'ouiiiiD Friend. — It gives me a 
secret comiort to observe in myself that I 
am not yet so far gone as Willie Gaw's 
Skate, "past redemption;" (15i for I lune 
still this favourable symptom of grace, that 
when my conscience, as in the case of this 
letter, tells me 1 am leaving something 
xuniuiie thit 1 ought to do, it teazes me 
eternally till 1 do it. 

I am still " dark as was chaos" in respect 
to futurity. iMy generous friend, Mr. 
Patrick Miller, has been talking with me 
about a lease of some farm or other in an 
estate called Ualswiuton, which he has 
)ately bou-ht near Dumfries. Some life- 
rented embittering recollect. oni «lii-p(r nie 



that I will be happier anywhere than in ray 
old neighbourhood, but Mr. Miller is no 
judge of land ; and though I dare say he 
means to favour me, yet he may give me, in 
his opinion, an advantageous bargain that may 
ruin me. I am to take a tour by Dumfries as I 
return, and have promised to meet Mr. 
Miller on his lands some time in May. 

I went to a mason-lodge yesternight, 
where the most Worsbipfid Grand Master 
Chartres, and all the Grand Lodge of Scot- 
land, visited. The meeting was numerous 
and elegant ; all the different lodges about 
town were present, in all their pomp. The 
Grand Master, who presided with great 
solemnity and honour to himself as a gentle- 
man and mason, among other general toasts, 
gave " Caledonia, and Caledonia's Bard, 
Brother Burns," whi^h rang through the 
whole assembly with multiplied honours and 
repeated acclamations. As I had no idea 
such a thing would happen, I was downright 
thunderstruck, and, trembling in every nerve, 
made the best return in my power. Just as 
I had finished, some of the grand officers 
said so loud that I could hear, with a most 
comforting accent, " \^ery well, indeed !" 
which set me something to rights again. 

I have to-day corrected my lu2iid page. 
My best good wishes to Mr. Aikea. 
I am ever, dear Sir, your much indebted 
humble servant, K. B. 



NO. XXXV. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP 
Edinburgh, January \atli, 1787. 
Madam. — Yours of the 9th current, wliicM 
I am this moment honoured with, is a deep 
reproach to me for ungrateful neglect. I 
will tell you the real truth, for I am miser- 
ably awkward at a fib, I wished to have 
written to Dr. JMoore before I wrote to you ; 
but, though every day since I received yours 
of December 30th, the idea, the wish to 
write to him, has constantly pressed on my 
thoughts, yet I could not for my soul set 
about it. I know his fame and character, 
and I am one of "the sons of little men." 
To write him a mere matter-of-fact allair, 
like a merchant's order, would be disgracing 
the little character I have; and to write the 
author of " The View of Society and Man- 
ners" a letter of sentiment — I declare ever 
artery runs cold at the thought. I shall 
try, however, to write to him to-morrow i)r 
next day. His kind interposition in my 
"■ iKiii 1 hrt\e aheady experienced, as a gen- 



280 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



tlenian waited on me the otlier day, on the 
part of Lord Eglinton, with ten guineas, by 
vay of subscription for two copies of my 
next edition. 

Tiie word you object to in the mention I 
have made of my glorious countryman and 
your immortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed 
from Thomson ; but it does not strike me as 
an improper epithet. I distrusted my own 
judjcment on your iindnig fault with it, and 
applied for the opinion of some of the 
literati here who honour me with their 
critical strictures, and they all allow it to be 
proper. The song you ask I cannot recol- 
lect, and 1 have not a copy of it. I have 
not composed any thing on the great 
Wallace, except what you have seen in 
print, and the enclosed, which I will print in 
this edition. You will see 1 have mentioned 
some others of the name. When I com- 
posed my Vision long ago, I had attempted 
a description of Kyle, of which the addi- 
tional stanzas are a part as it originally 
stood. My heart glows with a wish to be ■ 
able to do justice to the merits of the 
" saviour of his country," which, sooner or i 
later, I shall at least attempt. 

You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated 
with my prosperity as a poet : alas ! Madam, 
I know myself and the world too well. I do 
not mean any airs of affected modesty ; I 
am willing to believe that my abilities 
deserve some notice ; but in a most en- 
lightened, informed age and nation, when 
poetry is and has been the study of men of 
the lirst natural genius, aided with all the 
powers of polite learning, polite books, and 
polite company — to be ilragged forth to the 
full glare of learned and polite observation, 
with all my imperfections of awkward rus- 
ticity and crude unpolished ideas in my 
head — I assure you. Madam, I do not dis- 
semble when I tell you I tremble for the 
consequences. The novelty of a poet in my 
obscure situation, without any of those 
advantages which are reckoned necessary 
for that character, at least at this time of 
day, has raised a partial tide of public 
notice whicli has borne me to a height, 
wliere I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my 
abilities are inadequate to support me ; and 
too surely do I see that time when the same 
tide will leave me, and recede, perhaps, as 
fur below the mark of truth. I do not say 
tliis in the ridiculous atfectation of self- 
abasement and modesty. I have studied 
mysilf, and know what ground 1 occupy ; 
and however a friend or the world may differ 
from me in that particular, I stand for my 
own opinion, iii silent resolve, with all the 



tenaciousness of propriety. I mention tins 
to you once for all, to disburden my mind, 
and I do not wish to hear or say more about 
it. But, 

When proud fortune's ebbing tide recedes, 
you will bear me witness, that when my 
bubble of fame was at the highest, I stood 
uuintoxicated. with the inebriating cup iu 
my hand, loni in ;' forward with rueful resolve 
to the hastening time when the blow of 
calumny should dash it to the ground, with 
all the eagerness of vengeful triumph. 

Your patronising me, and interesting 
yourself in my fame and character as a poet, 
I rejoice in — it exalts u.e in my own idea — 
and whetlier you can or cannot aid me in 
my subscription, is a trifle. Has a paltry 
subscription-bill any charms to the heart of 
a bard, compared with the patronage of the 
descendant of the immprtal Wallace ? 

R. B. 



NO. XXXVI. 

10 DR. MOORE. (16) 

Edinhunjh, Jan. 1787. 

Sir. — Mrs.Dunlop has been so kind as to 
send me extracts of letters she has had from 
you, where you do the rustic bard the 
honour of noticing him and his works. 
Those who have felt the anxieties and 
solicitudes of authorship, can only know 
what pleasure it gives to be noticed in such 
a manner, by judges of the first character. 
Your criticisms. Sir, I receive w ith reverence ; 
only I am sorry they mostly came too late ; 
a peccant passage or two that I would cer- 
tainly have altered, were gone to the press. 

The hope to be admired for ages, is, iu by 
far the greater part of those even who are 
authors of repute, an unsubstantial dream. 
For my part, my first ambition was, and still 
my strongest wish is, to please my compeers, 
the rustic inmates of the hamlet, while ever- 
changing language and manners shall allow 
me to be relished and understood. I am 
very willing to admit that I have some poe- 
tical abilities ; and as few, if any writers, 
either moral or poetical, are intimately ac- 
quainted with the classes of mankind among 
whom I have chiefly mingled, I may have 
seen men and manners in a different phasis 
from w'^.at is common, which may assist 
originality of thought. Still I know very 
well the novelty of my character has by far 
the greatest share in the learned and polite 
notice I have lately had; and in a languaH:e 



TO JAMES DALTIYMPLE, ESQ. 



281 



where Pope and Churchill have raised the 
laugh, and Shenstone and Gray drawn the 
tear; where Thomson and Bcattie have 
painted the landscape, and Lyttleton anfl 
Colhns described the heart, I am not vain 
enough to hope for distniguished poetic 
fame. R. B. 



NO. XXXVU. 

TO THE REV. G. LAWRTE, 

NEWMILLS, NEAR KILMARNOCK. 

Edinburgh, Feb. 5t/i, 1787. 

Reverend and Dear Sir. — When I 
look at the date of your kind letter, my 
heart reproaches me severely with inj::rati- 
tude in neglecting so long to answer it. I 
will not trouble you with any account, by 
way of apology, of my hurried life and dis- 
tracted attention ; do me the justice to 
believe that my delay by no means proceeded 
from want of respect. I feel, and ever shall 
feel for you, the mingled sentiments for a 
friend, and reverence for a father. 

I thank you. Sir, with all my soul, for 
your friendly hints, though I do not need them 
so much as my friends are apt to imagine. 
You are dazzled with newspaper accounts 
and distant reports ; but, in reality, I have 
no great temptation to be intoxicated with 
tiie cup of prosperity. Novelty may attract 
the attention of mankind a while ; to it I 
owe my present eclat ; but I see the time 
not far distant when the popular tide, which 
has borne me to a height of which I am 
perhaps unworthy, shall recede with silent 
celerity, and leave me a barren waste of 
sand, to descend at my leisure to my former 
station. I do not say this in the affectation 
of modesty; I see the consequence is un- 
avoidable, and am prepared for it. I had 
oeen at a good deal of pains to form a just, 
impartial estimate of my intellectual powers 
before I came here ; I have not added, since 
I came to Edinburgh, any thing to the 
account; and I trust I shall take every atom 
of it back to my shades, the coverts of my 
unnoticed early years. 

In Dr. Blacklock, whom I see very often, 
I have found what I would have expected 
in our friend, a clear head and an excellent 
heart. 

By far the most agreeable hours I spend 
ui Edinburgh, must be placed to the account 
of !Miss Lawrie and her piano-forte. I can- 
not help repeating to you and Mrs. Lawrie 
a compliment iliut Mr. .Mackenzie, the 



celebrated " ^Man of Feeling," paid to Miss 
Ijawrie, the other night, at the concert. I 
had come in at the interlude, and sat down 
by him till I saw Miss Lawrie in a seat not 
very distant, and went up to pay my 
respects to her. On my return to Mr. 
-Mackenzie, he asked me who she was; I 
told him 'twas the daughter of a reverend 
friend of mine in the west country. He 
returned, there was something very striking, 
to his idea, in her appearance. On my 
desiring to know what it was, he was 
pleased to say, " She has a great deal of tlie 
elegance of a well-bred lady about her, with 
all the sweet simplicity of a country girl." 

My couipliments to all the happy inmates 
of St. Margaret's. I am, my dear Sir, yours 
most gratefully, Robert Burns. 



KO. XXXVIII. 



TO JAMES DALRY]VIPLE, Esa. 
orangefield. 

Ediuburijli, 1787. 

Dear Sir. — I suppose the devil is so 
elated with his success with you, that he is 
determined, by a coiqj de main, to complete 
his purposes on you all at once, in making 
you a poet. I broke open the letter you 
sent me — hummed over the rhymes — and as 
I saw they were extempore, said to myself, 
they were very well ; but when I saw at the 
bottom a name that I shall ever value «ith 
grateful respect, " I gapit wide, but naething 
spak." I was nearly as much struck as the 
friends of Job, of affliction-bearing memory, 
when they sat down with him seven days 
and seven nights, and spake not a word. 

I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and 
as soon as my wonder-scared imagination 
regained its consciousness, and resumed its 
functions, I cast about what this mania of 
yours might portend. jMy foreboding ideas 
hiid the wide stretch of possibility ; and 
several events, great in their magnitude, and 
important in their consequences, occurred to 
my fancy. The downfall of the conclave, or 
the crushing of the Cork rumps — a ducal 
coronet to Lord George Gordon, and tiie 
Protestant interest — or St. Peter's keys to 
• « * * « 

You want to know how I come on. I am 
just in slata quo, or, not to insult a gentle- 
man with my Latin, in " auld use and 
wont." The noble Earl of Glencairn took 
V .: 11. , i^ 1..1,, ami luierested him- 



2S2 



CORRESPONUHNCE OP BURNS. 



self in my concerns, with a goodness like 
that benevolent being whose ima^ce he so 
richly bears. He is a stronger proof of the 
immortality of the soul than any that phi- 
losophy ever produced. A mind like his 
can never die. Let the worshipful squire 
H. L., or the reverend I\Iast. J. M. go into 
their primitive nothing. At best, they are 
but ill-digested lumps of chaos, only one of 
thera strongly tinged with bituminous 
particles and sulphureous effluvia. But my 
noble patron, eternal as the heroic swell of 
magnanimity, and the generous throb of 
benevolence, shall look on with princely eye 
at " the war of elements, the wreck of 
matter, and the crash of worlds." 11. B. 



NO. XXXIX. 

TO DR. MOORE. 
Edinhimjli, February 15(A, 1787. 

Sir. — Pardon my seeming neglect in 
delaying so long to acknowledge the honour 
you have done me, in your kind notice of me, 
January 2ord, Not many months ago I 
knew no other employment than following 
the plough, nor could boast any thing higher 
than a distant acquaintance with a country 
clergyman. ]Mere greatness never em- 
barasses me ; 1 have nothing to ask from the 
great, and I do not fear their judgment ; 
but genius, polished by learning, and at its 
proper point of elevation in the eye of the 
world, this of late I frequently meet with, 
and tremble at its approach. I scorn the 
affectation of seeming modesty to cover self- 
conceit. That 1 have some merit, I do not 
deny ; but I see with frequent wringings of 
heart, that the novelty of my character, and 
the honest national prejudice of my coiuitry- 
men. have borne me to a height altogether 
untenable to my abilities. 

For the honour Miss Williams has done 
me, please, Sir, return her in my name my 
most grateful thanks. I have more than 
once thought of paying her in kind, but have 
hitherto quitted the idea in hopeless des- 
pondency. I had never before heard of 
her; but the other day 1 got her poems, 
which, for several reasons, some belongnig to 
the head, and others the offspring of the 
heart, give me a great deal of pleasure. I 
have little pretensions to critic lore; there 
are, I think, two characteristic features in 
her poetry — the unfettered wild flight of 
native genius, and the querulous, sombre 
tenderness of " time-settled sorrow." 

I only know what pleases me, often with- 
out being able to tell why. R. B. (17) 



TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esa. 

Edinburgh, Feb. 24, 1787. 

My Honoured Friend. — I will soon 
be with you now, in guid black prent — in a 
week or ten days at farthest. I am obliged, 
against my own wish, to print subscribers' 
names; so if any of my Ayr friends have 
subscription bills, they must be sent into 
Creech directly. I am getting my phiz done 
by an eminent engraver, and if it can be 
ready in time, I will appear in my book, 
lookuig, like all other fools, to my title-page. 
R. B. 



TO MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR. (18.) 
Lawn Market, Monday Morning, 1787. 

Dear Sir. — In justice to Spenser, I must 
acknowledge that there is scarcely a poet in 
the language could have been a more agree- 
able present to me ; and in justice to you, 
allow me to say. Sir, that I have not met 
with a man in Edinburgh to whom I would 
so willingly have been indebted for the gift. 
The tattered rhymes I herewith present you, 
and the handsome volumes of Spenser 
for which I am so much indebted to your 
goodness, may perhaps be not in proportion 
to one another ; but be that as it may, my 
gift, though far less valuable, is as sincere a 
mark of esteem as yours. 

The time is approaching when I shall re- 
turn to my shades ; and I am afraid my 
numerous Edinburgh friendships are of so 
tender a construction, that they will not 
bear carriage with me. Yours is one of the 
few that I could wish of a more robust con- 
stitution. It is indeed very probable that 
when 1 leave this city, we part never more 
to meet in this sublunary sphere ; but I 
have a strong fancy that in some future 
eccentric planet, the comet of happier sys- 
tems than any with which astronomy is yet 
acquainted, you and I, among the harum- 
scarum sons of imagination and wliim, with 
a hearty shake of a hand, a metaphor and a 
laugh, sliall recognise old acquaintance : 

Where wit may sparkle all its rays, 
Uncurst with caution's fears; 

That pleasure, basking in the blaze. 
Rejoice for endless years. 

I have the honour to be, with the warm- 
est sincerity, dear Sir, &c. R. B. 



LETTER TO 



28.1 



NO. XLII. 

TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

Ediubarrjh, Fahruary, 1787. 

My Lord. — I wanted to purchase a pro* 
file of your lordship, which I was told was to 
he got in town ; but I am truly sorry to see 
that a blundering painter has spoiled a 
" human face divine." The enclosed stanzas 
I intended to have written below a picture or 
profile or your lordship, could I have been 
so happy as to procure one with any thing 
of a likeness. 

As I will soon return to my shades, I 
wanted to have something like a material 
object for my gratitude ; I wanted to have it 
in my power to say to a friend, there is my 
noble patron, my generous benefactor. Al- 
low me, my lord, to publish these verses. I 
conjure your lordship, by the honest throe 
of gratitude, by the generous wish of bene- 
volence, by all the powers and feelings which 
compose the magnanimous mind, do not 
deny me this petition. I owe much to your 
lordship ; and, what has not in some other 
instances always been the case with me, the 
weight of the obligation is a pleasing load. 
I trust I have a heart as independent as your 
lordship's, than which I can say nothing 
more : and I would not be beholden to 
favours that would crucify my feelings 
Your dignified character in life, and manner 
of supporting that character, are flatterhig to 
my pride ; and I would be jealous of the 
purity of my grateful attachment, where 1 
was under the patronage of one of the much- 
favoured sons of fortune. 

Almost every poet has celebrated his 
patrons, particularly when they were names 
dear to fame, and illustrious in their coun- 
try : allow me, then, my lord, if you think 
the verses have intrinsic merit, to tell the 
world how much I have the honour to be, 
your lordship's highly indebted, and ever 
grateful hunable servant, 11. B. 



NO. XLIIl. 



TO JiR. ja:\ies candlisii, 

STUDENT IN PHYSIC, GLASGOW COLLEGE. 

Edinburgh, March 2lst, 1787. 

My Ever Dear Old AcauAiNTANCE. 
— I was equally surprised and pleased at 
your letter, though I dare say you will 
think, by my delaymg so long to write to 
you, that I am so drowned in the intoxica- 
tion of good fortune as to be iudilTereut to 



old, and once dear connexions. The truth 
is, I was determined to write a good letter, 
full of argument, amplification, erudition, 
and, as Eayes says, all that. 1 thought of 
it, and thought of it, and by my soul 1 could 
not ; and, lest you should mistake the cause 
of my silence, 1 just sit down to tell you so. 
Don't give yourself credit, though, that the 
strength of your logic scares me : the truth 
is, 1 never mean to meet you on that ground 
at all. You have shown me one thing wliich 
was to be demonstrated: that strong pride 
of reasoning, with a little affectation of sin- 
gularity, may mislead the best of hearts. I 
likewise, since you and 1 were first ac- 
quainted, in the pride of despising old 
women's stories, ventured in the " daring 
path Spinosa trod;" but experience of the 
weakness, not the strength of human powers, 
made me glad to grasp at revealed religion. 

I am still, in the Apostle Paul's phrase, 
"The old man with his deeds," as when we 
were sporting about the " Lady Thorn." I 
shall be four weeks here yet at least, and so 
I shall expect to hear from you ; welcome 
sense, welcome nonsense. 1 am, with the 
warmest sincerity, yours, &c., K. B. 



NO. XLIV. 

TO 



ON FERGUSSON S HEADSTONE, 

Edinburgh, March, 1787. 

My Dear Sir. — You may think, and 
too justly, that I am a selfish, ungrate- 
ful fellow, having received so many repeated 
instances of kindness from you, and yet 
never putting pen to paper to say " thank 
you"; but if you knew what a devil of a life 
my conscience has led me on that account, 
your good heart would think yourself too 
much avenged. By the bye, there is nothing 
in the whole frame of man which seems to 
be so unaccountable as that thing called 
conscience. Had the troublesome, yelping 
cur powers sufficient to prevent a mischief, 
he might be of use; but at the beginning 
of the business, his feeble efforts are to the 
workings of passion as the infant frosts of 
an autumnal morning to the unclouded 
fervour of the rising sun : and no sooner are 
the tumultuous doings of the wicked deed 
over, than, amidst the bitter native con- 
sequences of folly in the very vortex of our 
horrors, up starts conscience, and harrows 
us with the feelings of the damned. 

I have enclosed you by way of expiation, 
som-j verses and prose, that, if they merit Q 



29.i 



COHR.E^^POKTnEVr'E OP RUTINS. 



place in your truly entertaining miscellany, 
you are welcome to. The prose extract is 
literally as Mr. Sprott sent it me. 

The inscription on the stone is as fol- 
lows : — 

" HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, 

POET. 

Born, September 5th, 1751 — Died, ICth 

October, 1774. 

"Noscnlptured marble here, nor pompous lay, 
'No storied urn, nor animated bust;' 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust.' " 

On the other side of the stone is as fol- 
lows : — 

" By special grant of the managers to 
Robert Burns, who erected this stone, this 
burial-place is to remain for ever sacred to 
to the memory of Robert Fergusson." 

Session-Jiovse within the kirk of Canonr/ate, 
the twenty-second day of February, one 
thousand seven htmdrcd eighty-seven years. 

Sederunt of the Managers of the Kirk and 
Kirk-yard funds of Canongate. 

Which day, the treasurer to the said funds 
produced a letter from Mr. Robert Burns, of 
date the 6th current, which was read and 
appointed to be engrossed in their sederunt 
book, and of which letter the tenor follows: — 

"To the honourable bailies of Canongate, 
Edinburgh. — Gentlemen, I am sorry to be 
told that the remains of Robert Fergusson, 
the so justly celebrated poet, a man whose 
talents for ages to come will do honour to 
our Caledonian name, lie in your church-yard 
among the ignoble dead, unnoticed and un- 
known. 

Some memorial to direct the steps of the 
lovers of Scottish song, when they wish to 
shed a tear over the ' narrow house' of the 
bard who is no more, is surely a tribute due 
to Fcrgusson's memory — a tribute I wish to 
have the honour of paying. 

I petition you then, gentlemen, to permit 
me to lay a simple stone over his revered 
ashes, to remain an unalienable property to 
his deathless fame. I have the honour to be, 
gentlemen, your very humble servant, (sic 
subscribitur) Robert Burns." 

Therefore the said managers, in considera- 
tion of the laudable and disinterested mo- 
tiin of Mr Burns, and the propriety of his 
request, did, and hereby do, unanimously, 
^int power and liberty to the said Robert 



Burns to erect a headstone at the grave of 
the said Robert Fergusson, and to keep up 
and preserve the same to his memory in all 
time coming. Extracted forth of the records 
of the managers, by 

William Sprott, Clerk. 



NO. XLV. 

TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

My Lord. — The honour your lordship 
has done me, by your notice and advice lu 
yours of the 1st instant, I shall ever grate- 
fully remember : — 

Praise from thy lips 'tis mine with joy to 

boast, 
They best can give it who deserve it most. 

Your lordship touches the darlinsr chord 
of my heart, when you advise me to fire m_v 
muse at Scottish story and Scottish scenes. 
I wish for nothing more than to make a 
leisurely pilgrimage through my native coun- 
try ; to sit and muse on those once hard- 
contended fields, where Caledonia, rejoicing, 
saw her bloody lion borne through broken 
ranks to victory and fame ; and catching the 
inspiration, to pour the deathless names in 
song. But, my lord, in the midst of these 
enthusiastic reveries, a long-visaged, dry 
moral-looking pha^itora strides across my 
imagination, and pronounces these emphatic 
words : — 

"I, Wisdom, dwell with Prudence. Friend, 
I do not come to open the ill- closed wounds 
of your follies and misfortunes, merely to 
give you pain : I wish through these woundi 
to imprint a lasting lesson on your heart. 
I will not mention how many of my salutary 
advices you have despised ; I have given you 
line upon line and precept upon precept; and 
while I was chalking out to you the straight 
way to wealth and character, with audacious 
effrontery you have zigzagged across the 
path, contemning me to my face : you knox? 
the consequences. It is not yet three months 
since home was so hot for you that you were 
on the wing for the western shore of the 
Atlantic, not to make a fortune, but to hide 
your misfortune. 

" Now that your dear-loved Scotia puts it 
in your power to return to the situation ot 
your forefathers, will you follow these will- 
o'-wisp meteors of fancy and whim, till they 
bring you once more to the brink of ruin ? 
I grant that the utmost ground you can oc- 
cupy is but half a step from the veriest 
poverty ; but still it is half a step from it 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



283 



If all that I can urge be ineffectual, let her 
who seldom calls to you in vain, let the call 
of pride prevail with you. You know how 
you feel at the iron gripe of ruthless oppres- 
sion : you know how you bear the galling 
sneer of contumelious greatness. 1 hold you 
out the conveniences, the comforts of life, 
independence and character, on the one 
hand ; I tender you servility, dependence, 
and wTetchedness, on the other. I will not 
insult your understanding by bidding you 
make a choice." 

This, my lord, is unanswerable. I mtist 
return to my humble station, and woo my 
rustic muse, in my wonted way, at the 
plough-tad. Still, my lord, while the drops 
of life warm my heart, gratitude to that 
dear-loved country in which I boast my birth, 
and gratitude to those her distinguished 
eons who have honoured me so much with 
their patronage and approbation, shall, while 
stealing through my humble shades, ever 
distend my bosom, and at times, as now, 
draw forth the swelUng tear. R. B. 



NO. XLVl. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Edinhmjh, March 22)1(1, 1737. 

M.\D.\M. — I read your letter with watery 
eyes. A little, very little while ago, I had 
.scarce a friend but the stubborn pride of my 
own bosom ; now I am distinguished, pa- 
tronised, befriended by you. Your friendly 
advices, I will not give them the cold name 
of criticisms, I receive with reverence. I 
have made some small alterations in what I 
before had printed. I have the advice of 
iome very judicious friend among the literati 
here, but with them I sometimes find it 
necessary to claim the privilege of thinking 
for myself. The noble Earl of Glencairn, 
to whom I owe more than to any man, does 
me the honour of giving me his strictures; 
his hints, with respect to impropriety or 
indehcacy, I follow implicitly. 

Y'ou kindly interest yourself in my future 
views and prospects ; there I can give you 
no light. It is all 

Dark as was chaos ere the infant sun 

"Was roU'd together, or had tried his beams 

Athwart the gloom profound. 

The appellation of a Scottish bard is by 
fer ray highest pride ; to continue to deserve 
it is my most exalted ambition. Scottish 
■ceues and Scottish story are the themes I 



could wish to sing. I have no dearer aim 
than to have it in my power, unplagucd with 
the routine of business, for which. Heaven 
knows, I am unfit enough, to make leisurely 
pilgrimages through Caledonia; to sit on 
the fields of her battles, to wander on the 
romantic banks of her rivers, and to muse 
by the stately towers or venerable ruins, 
once the honoured abodes of her heroes. 

But these are all Utopian thoughts ; I 
have dallied long enough with life ; 'tis time 
to be in earnest. I have a fond, an aged 
mother to care for, and some other bosom 
ties perhaps equally tender. A\'here the 
individual only suffers by the consequences 
of his own thoughtlessness, indolence, or 
folly, he may be excusable — nay, shining 
abdities, and some of the nobler virtues, 
may half sanctify a heedless character ; but 
where God and nature have intrusted the 
welfare of others to his care — where the 
trust is sacred, and the ties are dear — that 
man must be far gone in selfishness, or 
strangely lost to reflection, whom these con- 
nexions wdl not rouse to exertion. 

I guess that I shall clear between two and 
three hundred pounds by my authorship; 
with that sum I intend, so far as I may be 
said to have any intention, to return to my 
old acquaintance, the jilough, and, if I can 
meet with a lease by which I can live, to 
commence farmer. I do not intend to give 
up poetry ; being bred to labour secures me 
independence, and the muses are my chief, 
sometimes have been my only enjoyment. 
If my practice second my resolution, I shall 
have principally at heart the serious business 
of life ; but while following my plough, or 
building up my shocks, I shall cast a leisure 
glance to that dear, that only feature of my 
character, which gave me the notice of my 
country, and the patronage of a Wallace. 

Thus, honoured Madam, I have given you 
the bard, his situation, and his views, native 
as they are in his own bosom. R. B. 



NO. XLVII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinbaryh, April loth, 1737. 

M.A.DA1M. — There is an affectation of 
gratitude which I dislike. The periods of 
Johnson and the pauses of Sterne may hide 
a selfish heart. For my part, .Madam, I 
trust I have too much pride for servility, 
and too little prudence for selfishness, j 



28fi 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



have this moment brolcen open your letter, 
but 

Rude am I in speech. 
And tlicrefore little can 1 grace my cause 
In speaking for myself — 

so I shall not trouble you with any fine 
speeches and hunted figures. I shall just 
lay Biy hand on my heart and say, I hope I 
shall ever have the truest, the warmest sense 
of your goodness. 

I come abroad, in print, for certain on 
Wednesday. Your orders I shall punctually 
attend to; only, by the way, I must tell you 
that I was paid before for Dr. Moore's and 
Miss Williams's copies, through the medium 
of Commissioner Cochrane in this place, but 
that we can settle when I have the honour 
of waiting on you. 

Dr. Smith (19) was just gone to London 
the morning before I received your letter to 
lum. R- B. 



NO. XLVIH. 

TO DR. MOORE. 
Edinburgh, April, 23rd 1787. 

f RECEIVED the books, and sent the one 
you mentioned to Mrs. Dunlop. I am ill 
skilled in beating the coverts of imagina- 
tion for metaphors of gratitude. I thank 
you. Sir, for the honour vou have done me, 
and to my latest hour will warmly remember 
it. To be highly pleased with your book is, 
what I have in common with the world, but 
to regard these volumes as a mark of the 
author's friendly esteem, is a still more 
supreme gratification. 

I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten 
days or a fortnight, and, after a few pilgrim- 
ages over some of the classic ground of 
Caledonia, Cowdeu Knowes, Banks of 
Yarrow, Tweed, &c., I shall return to my 
rural shades, in all likelihood never more to 
quit them. 1 have formed many intiraacie.T 
and friendships here, but I am afraid they 
are all of too tender a construction to bear 
carriage a hundred and fifty miles. To the 
rich, the great, the fashionable, the polite, I 
have no equivalent to offer ; and I am afraid 
my meteor appearance will by no means 
entitle me to a settled correspondence with 
any of you, who are the permanent lights of 
genius and literature. 

My most respectful compliments to Miss 
Williams. If once this tangent flight of 
mnie were over, and 1 were returned to my 
irouted leisurely motion in my old circle, I 



may probably endeavour to return her poetic 
compliment in kind. R. B. (20) 



NO. XLIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP 

Edinburgh, April 30th, 1787. 

Your criticisms, Madam, I under* 

stand very well, and could have wished to 
have pleased you better. You are right in 
your guess that I am not very amenable to 
counsel. Poets, much my superiors, have 
so flattered those who possessed the adven- 
titious qualities of wealth and power, that I 
am determined to flatter no created being, 
either in prose or verse. 

I set as little by princes, lords, clergy, 
critics, &c., as all these respective gentry do 
by my hardship. 1 know what I may expect 
from the world by and bye — illiberal abuse, 
and perhaps contem])tuous neglect. 

I am happy, Madam, that some of my owa 
favourite pieces are distinguished by your 
particular approbation. For my " Dream," 
which has unfortunately incurred your loyal 
displeasure, I hope in four weeks, or less, to 
have the honour of appearing, at Dunlop, ia 
its defence in person. R. 13. 



TO JAMES JOHNSON, 

EDITOR OF THE SCOTS MUSICAI. 
MUSEUM. 

Lawnmarkcf, Friday Noon, 
May 3rd, 1787. 

Dear Sir. — I have sent you a song never 
before known for 'your collection ; the air by 
M'Gibbon, but I know not the author of the 
words, as I got it from Dr. Blacklock. 

Farewell, my dear Sir ! I wished to have 
seen you, but I have been dreadfully 
throng (21), as I march to-morrow. (22) 
Had my acquaintance with you been a little 
older, 1 would have asked the favour of your 
correspondence, as I have met with few 
people whose company and conversation 
gave me so much pleasure, because I have 
met with few whose sentiments are so ccii- 
genial to my own. 

When Dunbar and you meet, tell him that 
I left Edinburgh with the idea of hira hang, 
ing somewhere about my heart. 

Keep the original of this song till we mjtt 
again, whenever that may be. R. B 



TO Mi;. PATISON. 



287 



NO. LI. 

TO THE REV. DR. HUGH BLAIR. 

Lawnmarket, Ed'tnhurgh, 
May -ird, 1787. 

Rev. and much-Respected Sir. — I 
leave Edinburgh to-morrow morning, but 
could not go without troubhng you with 
half a line, sincerely to thank you for the 
kindness, patronage and friendship you 
have shown nie. I often felt the embarrass- 
ment of my singular situation ; drawn forth 
from the veriest shades of life to the glare 
of remark, and honoured by the notice of 
those illustrious names of my country, whose 
works, while they are applauded to the end 
of time, will ever instruct and mend the 
heart. However the meteor-like novelty of 
my appearance in the world might attract 
notice, and honour me with the acquaintance 
of the permanent lights of genius and litera- 
ture, those who are tridy benefactors of the 
immortal nature of man, I knew very well 
that my utmost merit was far unequal to the 
task of preserving that character when once 
the novelty was over ; I have so made up my 
mind that abuse, or almost even neglect, 
will not surprise me in my quarters. 

I have sent you a proof impression of 
Beugo's work (23) for me, done on Indian 
paper, as a trifling but sincere testimony with 
what heart- warm gratitude I am, &c. 

R. B. (24) 



TO WILLIAM CREECH, Esa, 
EDINBURGH. 

Selkirk, May \Zlh, 1787. 

My Honoured Friend. — The enclosed 
I have just wrote (23), nearly extempore, in 
a solitary inn in Selkirk, after a miserably 
wet day's riding. I have been over most of 
East Lothian, Berwick, Roxburgh, and 
Selkirk shires, and next week I begin a tour 
through the north of England. Yesterday 
I dined with Lady Harriet, sister to my 
noble patron (26), Quern Deiis conseroet ! 
I wouUl write till I would tire you as much 
with dull jjrose, as I daresay by this time 
you are with wretched verse; but I am 
iaded to death ; so, with a grateful farewell, 
I have the honour to be, good Sir, yours 
Bincerely, R. B. 



NO. LIII. 

TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH. 

Edinburgh, 1787. 

My De.\r Friend. — If once I were 
gone from this scene of hurry and dissipation, 
I promise myself the pleasure of that corres- 
pondence being renewed which has been so 
long broken. At present I have time for 
nothing. Dissipation and business engross 
every moment. I am engaged in assisting 
an honest Scotch enthusiast (27), a friend of 
mine, who is an engraver, and has taken it 
into his head to publish a collection of all 
our songs set to music, of which the words 
and music are done by Scotsmen. This, you 
will easily guess, is an undertaking exactly 
to my taste. I have collected, begged, bor- 
rowed, and stolen, all the songs I could 
meet with. Pompey's Ghost, words and 
music, I beg from you immediately, to go 
into his second number — the first is already 
published. I shall show you the first num- 
ber when I see you in Glasgow, which will 
be in a fortnight or less. Do be so kind as 
to send me the song in a day or two — you 
cannot imagine how much it will oblige me. 

Direct to me at Mr. W. Cruikshank's, 
St. James's Square, New Town, Edinb\irgh. 
R. B. 



2fi 



TO MR. PATISON, BOOKSELLER, 
PAISLEY. 

Berrii-well, near Dunse, 
May llth, 1787. 
Dear Sir. — I am sorry I was out of 
Edinburgh, making a slight pilgrimage to 
the classic scenes of this country, when I 
was favoured with yours of the 11th instant, 
enclosing an order of the Paisley Banking 
Company on the Royal Bank, for twenty-two 
pounds seven shillings sterling, payment in 
full, after carriage deducted, for ninety copies 
of my book I sent you. According to your 
motions, I see you will have left Scotland 
before this reaches you, otherwise I would 
send you " Holy Willie " with all my heart. 
I was so hurried that I absolutely forgot 
several things I ought to have minded:—- 
among the rest, sending books to .Mr. Cowan ; 
but any order of yours will be answered at 
Creech's shop. You will please remember 
that non-subscribers pay six shillings, this is 
Creech's profit ; but those wiio iiave sub- 
scribed, though their names have beeij 



28S 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



nej,^Iecte(l in the printed list, wliich is very 
incorrect, are supplied at the subscription 
price. I was not at Glasgow, nor do I 
intend to go to London ; and I think Mrs. 
Fame is very idle to tell so many lies on a poor 
poet. 'When you or Mr. Cowan write for 
copies, if you should want any, direct to Mr. 
Kill, at Mr. Creech's shop (28j, and I write 
to Mr. Hill by this post, to answer either of 
your orders. Hill is Mr. Creech's tirst clerk, 
and Creech himself is presently in London. 
1 suppose I shall have the pleasure, against 
your return to Paisley, of assuring you how 
much I am, dear Sir, your obliged, humble 
servant, R. B. 



NO. LV. 

TO MR. W. NICOL, 

MASTER OF THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDIN- 
BUUGH. 

Carlisle, June 1, 1787. 

Kind Honest-hearted Willie — I'm 
sit ten down here, after seven and forty miles 
ridni', e'en as forjesket and forniav/'d as a 
forfoughten cock, to gie you some notion o' 
my land-lowper-like stravaguin sin' the sor- 
rowfu' hour that I sheuk hands and parted 
wi' Auld Reekie. 

My auld, ga'd gleyde o' a meere has huch- 
yall'd up hill and down brae, in Scotland 
and England, as teugh and birnie as a very 
devil wi' me. It's true she's as poor's a 
sangmaker and as hard's a kirk, and tipper- 
taipers when she taks the gate, first like a 
lady's gentle-woman in a minuwae, or a hen 
on a het girdle ; but she's a yauld, poutherie 
girran for a' that, and has a stomach like 
VVillie Stalker's meere, that wad hae di- 
geested tumbler-wheels — for she'll whip me 
aff her five stimparts o' the best aits at a 
down-sittin, and ne'er fash her thumb. 
When ance her ringbanes and spavies, her 
crucks and cramps, are fairly soupl'd, she 
beets to, beets to, and aye the hindmost hour 
the tightest. I could wager her price to a 
tlirettie pennies, that for twa or three wooks 
ridin' at fifty mile a-day, the deil-sticket a five 
gallopers acqueesh Clyde and Whithorn 
could cast saut on her tail. (29) 

1 hae dander'd owre a' the kintra frae 
Diunbar to Selcraig, and hae forgather'd wi' 
mony a guid fallow, and mony a weelfar'd 
hizzie. I met wi' twa dink, quines in par- 
ticular, ane o' them a sonsie, fine, fodgel lass 
— baith, braw and bonnie ; the tither was a 
clean-shankit, straught, tight, weel-far'd 
winch, as blvthe's a lintwhite on a flowerie 



thorn, and as sweet and modesfs a nevr- 
blawn plum-rose in a hazle shaw. They 
were baith bred to mainers by the beuk, and 
onie ane o' them had as muckle smeddum 
and rumblegumption as the half o' some 
presbytries that you and I baith ken. They 
play'd me sick a deil o' a shavie, that I 
daur say, if my harigals were turn'd out, ye 
wad see twa nicks i' the heart o' me like the 
mark o' a kail-whittle in a castock. 

I was gann to write you a lang pystle, but 
God forgie me, I gat mysel sae iioutouri- 
ously bitchify'd the day, after kail-time, that 
I can hardly stoiter hot and ben. 

My best respecks to the guidwife and a* 
our common friens, especially Mr. and Mrs. 
Cruikshank, and the honest guidman o' 
Jock's Lodge. 

I'll be in Dumfries the morn gif the beast 
be to the fore, and the branks bide hale, 
Guid be wi' you, AVillie ! Amen [ R. B. 



TO WILLIAM NICOL, Esq. 

Auchlertyre (30j, June, 1787. 

My Dear Sir. — I find myself very com- 
fortable here, neither oppressed by ceremony, 
nor mortified by neglect. Lady Augusta is 
a most engaging woman, and very happy in 
her family, which makes one's outgoings and 
incomings very agreeable. I called at Mr. 
Ramsay's of Auchtertyre (31), as I came up 
the country, and am so delighted with him, 
that I shall certainly accept of his invitatioa 
to spend a day or two with him as I return. 
I leave this place on Wednesday or Thursday. 

Make my kind compliments to Mr. and 
Mrs. Cruikshank and Mrs. Nicol, if she is 
returned. I am ever, dear Sir, your deeply 
indebted R. B. 



TO MR. W. NICOL, 

MASTEK OP THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDIN- 
BURGH. 

MaucMine, June 18, 1787. 

My Dear Friend. — I am now arrived 
safe in my native country, after a very agree- 
able jaunt, and have the pleasure to find all 
my friends well. I breakfasted with your 
grey-headed, reverend friend, Mr. Smith ; 
and was highly pleased both with the cordial 
welcome he gave me, and his most excellent 
appearance and sterling good sense. 

I have been with Mr. MUier at Dalswin- 



TO MK. JOHX RICHilOND. 



28» 



ton, and am to meet him ac'ain in Au2;ust. 
From my view of the lands, and liis reception 
of my barJship, my hopes in that business 
are ratlier mended; but still they are but 
slender. 

I am quite charmed with Dumfries folks:— 
Mr. Burnside, the clergyman, in partioilar, is 
a man whom I shall ever gratefully remem- 
ber ; and his wife — guid forgie me ! 1 had 
almost broke the tenth commandment on 
her account. Simplicity, elegance, good 
sense, sweetness of disposition, good humour, 
kind hospitality, are the constituents of her 
manner and heart : in short — hut if 1 say 
one word more about her, I shall be directly 
in love with her. 

I never, my friend, thought mankind very 
capable of anything generous; but the state- 
hness of the patricians in Edinburgh, and 
the civility of my ple'..eian brethren (who 
l)erhaps formerly eyed me askance) since I 
returned home, have nearly put me out of 
conceit altogether with my species. I have 
bought a pocket IMilton, which I carry per- 
petually about with me, in order to study 
the sentiments, the dauntless magnanimity, 
the intrepid, unyielding independence, the 
desperate daring, and noble defiance of hard- 
ship in that great personage, Satan. 'Tis 
true, I have just now a little cash ; but I am 
afraid the star ttiat hitherto has shed its 
malignant, purpose-blasting rays full in my 
zenith, — that noxious planet, so baneful in 
its influences to the rhyming tribe, — I much 
dread it is not yet beneath ray horizon. 
Misfortune dodges the path of human life ; 
the poetic mind finds itself miserably de- 
ranged in, and unfit for the walks of busi- 
ness ; add to all, that thoughtless follies and 
hair-braiiicd whims, like so many ignes faliii 
eternally diverging from the right line of 
sober discretion, sparkle with step-bewitching 
blaze in the idly-gazing eyes of the poor 
heedless bard, till pop, " he falls like Lucifer, 
never to hope again." God grant that this 
may be an imreal picture with respect to me! 
but should it not, I have very little depend- 
ence on mankind. I will close my letter with 
this tribute my heart bids me pay you — 
the many ties of acquaintance and friendship 
which 1 have, or think I have in life, I have 
felt along the lines, and damn them, they are 
almost all of them of such frail contexture, 
that I am sure they would not stand the 
breath of the least adverse breeze of fortune; 
but from \ on, my ever dear Sir, I look with 
confidence for the apostolic love that shall 
wait on me " through good report an<l bad 
report " — the love which Solomon emphati- 
cally say3 '• is strong as death." My com- 



pliments to Mrs. Nicol, and all the circle of 
our common friends. 

P. S. I shall be in Edinburgh about the 
latter end of July. R. B. 



TO WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK. (32) 
ST. James's souare, Edinburgh. 
Auchtertyre, June, 1787. 

I HAVE nothing, my dear Sir, to WTite to 
you, but that 1 feel myself exceedingly com- 
fortably situated in tliis good family — ^jnst 
notice enough to make me easy but not to 
embarrass me. I was storm-staid two days 
at the foot of the Ochill Hills, with Mr. Tait 
of Herveyston and ilr. Johnston of Alva, 
but was so well pleased that 1 shall certainly 
spend a day on the banks of the Devon as 1 
return. I leave this place I suppose on 
^^'ednesday, and shall devote a day to Mr. 
Ramsay, at Auchtertyre, near Stirling — a 
man to whose worth I cannot do justice. 
My respectful kind compliments to Mrs. 
Cruikshank, and my dear little Jeanie, and 
if you see Mr. ^lasterton, please remember 
me to him. 1 am ever, my dear Sir, &c. 
R. B. 



no. liix. 
TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND. 

Mossgiel, July ~lh, 1787. 

My Dear Richmond. — I am all im- 
patience to hear of your fate since the old 
confounder of right and wrong has turned 
you out of place, by his journey t^ answer 
his indictment at the bar of the other world. 
He will find the practice of the court so 
different from the practice in which he has 
for so many years been thoroughly hack- 
neyed, that his friends, if he had any con- 
nections truly of that kind, which I rather 
doubt, may well tremble for his sake. His 
chicane, his left-handed wisdom, which stocd 
so firmly by him, to such good purpose, 
here, like other accomplices in robbery and 
plunder, will, now the piratical business is 
blown, in all probability turn king's evi- 
dences, and then the devil's bagpiper will 
touch him off " Bundle and go." 

If he has left you any legacy, I beg 
your pardon for all this; if not, I know 
you will swear to every word I said about 
hira. 

1 have lately been rambling over by Dum- 



290 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



barton and Inverary, and running a drunken 
race on the side of Loch Lomond with a 
wild Ilighlandman ; his horse, which had 
never known the ornaments of iron or 
leatlier, zigzagged across before my old 
spavin'd hunter, whose name is Jenny 
Getldes, and down came the Highlandman, 
horse and all, and down came Jenny and 
my ladyship ; so I have got such a skinful 
of bruises and wounds, that I shall be at 
least four weeks before I dare venture on my 
journey to Edinburgh. 

Not one new thing under the sun has 
happened in Mauchline since you left it. I 
hope this will find you as comfortably 
situated as formerly, or, if Heaven pleases, 
more so ; but, at all events, I trust you will 
let me know, of course, how matters stand 
with you, well or ill. 'Tis but poor con- 
solation to tell the world when matters go 
wrong , but you know very well your con- 
nection and mine stands on a different 
footing. I am ever, my dear friend, yours, 
R. B. 



TO ROBERT ALVSLIE, Esa. 

Mauchline, July, 1/87. 

My Dear Sir. — My life, since I saw you 
last, has been one continued hurry ; that 
savage hospitality which knocks a man down 
with strong liquors, is the devil. I have a 
sore warfare in this world ; the devil, the 
world, and the flesh, are three formidable 
foes. TJie first I generally try to fly from ; 
the second, alas 1 generally flies from me ; 
but the third is my plague, worse than the 
ten plagues of Egypt. 

I have been looking over several farms in 
this country; one in particular, in Niths- 
dale, pleased me so well, that, if my offer to 
the proprietor is accepted, I shall commence 
farmer at Whitsunday. If farming do not 
appear eligible, I shall have recourse to my 
other shift ; but this to a friend. 

I set out for Edinburgh on Monday 
morning ; how long I stay there is uncertain, 
but you will know so soon as I can inform 
you myself. However I determine, poesy 
must be laid aside for some time ; my mind 
has been vitiated with idleness, and it will 
take a good deal of effort to habituate it to 
the routine of business. I am, my dear Sir, 
yours sincerely, R. B. 



TO ROBERT AINSLIE. (33) 

Mauchline, July 23rcZ, 1787. 
My Dear Ainslie. — There is one thing 
for which I set great store by you as a friend, 
and it is this, that I have not a friend upon 
earth, besides yourself, to whom I can talk 
nonsense without forfeiting some degree of 
his esteem. Now, to one like me, who 
never cares for speaking any thing else but 
nonsense, such a friend as you is an invalua- 
ble treasure. I was never a rogue, but have 
been a fool all my life ; and, in spite of all 
my endeavours, I see now plainly that I 
shall never be wise. Now it rejoices my 
heart to have met with such a fellow as 
you, who, though you are not just such a 
hopeless fool as I, yet I trust you will never 
listen so much to the temptations of the 
devil, as to grow so very wise that you will 
in the least disrespect an honest fellow be- 
cause he is a fool. In short, 1 have set you 
down as the staff of my old age, when the 
whole list of ray friends will, after a decent 
share of pity, have forgot me. 

Though in the morn comes sturt and strife. 

Yet joy may come at noon ; 
And I hope to live a merry merry life 

When a' tliir days are done. 

Write me soon, were it but a few lines 
just to tell me how that good, sagacious 
man, your father, is — that kind dainty body 
your mother — that strapping chicl your 
brother Douglas — and my friend Racliel, 
who is as far before Rachel of old, as 
she was before her blear-eyed sister Leah. 
R. B. 



NO. LXII. 



TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. 

Utirliny, Auyiist 26th, 1737. 

My Dear Sir. — I intended to have 
written you from Edinburgh, and now 
write you from Stirling to make an excuse. 
Here am I, on my way to Inverness, with 
a truly original, but very worthy man, a 
jMr. Nicol, one of the masters of the High- 
school in Edinburgh. — I left Auld Reekie 
yesterday morning, and have passed, besides 
by-excursions, Linlithgow, Borrowstouness, 
Falkirk, and here am I undoubtedly. This 
morning I knelt at the tomb of Sir John the 
Graham, the gallant friend of the immortal 
Wallace •. and two hours ago I said a fervent 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 



291 



prayer for old Caledonia over the hole in 
a blue whinstone, where Robert de Bruce 
fixed his royal standard on the banks of 
Bauiiockburn; and just now, from Stirling 
Castle, I have seen by the settinjj sun the 
glorious prospect of the windings of Forth 
through the rich carse of StiHing, and 
skirting the equally rich carse of Falkirk. 
The crops are very strong, but so very late 
that there is no harvest except a ridge or 
two perhaps in ten miles, all the way I have 
travelled from Edinburgh. 

I left Andrew Bruce (34) and family all 
well. I will be at least three weeks in 
making my tour, as I shall return by the 
coast, and have many people to call for. 

jMy best compliments to Charles, our dear 
kinsman and fellow-saint ; and Messrs. W. 
and H. Parker. I hope Hughoc (35) is 
going on and prospering with God and Miss 
M'Causlin. 

If I could think on any thing sprightly, I 
should let you hear every other post; but 
a dull, matter-of-fact business like this 
scrawl, the less and seldomer one writes the 
better. 

Among other matters-of-fact I shall add 
this, that I am and ever shall be, my dear 
Sir, your obliged R. B. 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Eso. 

Stirlinr;, Aurjust 28th, 1787. 

My Dear Sir — Here am Ion my way 
to Inverness. I have rambled over the rich, 
fertile carses of Falkirk and Stirling, and 
am delighted with their appearance : richly 
waving crops of wheat, barley, &c., but no 
harve-it at all yet, except in one or two places 
an old-wife's ridge. Yesterday morning I 
rodi* from this town up the meandering Devon's 
'jauks, to pay my respects to some Ayrshire 
folks at llarvieston. After breakfast, we 
made a party to go and see the famous 
Caiidron-linn, a remarkable cascade in the 
Devon, about five miles above Harvieston ; 
and after spending one of the most pleasant 
days I ever had in my life, I returned to 
Stirling in the evening. They are a family. 
Sir, though I had not had any prior tie — 
though they had not been the brother and 
sisters of a certain generous friend of mine — 
1 would never forget them. I am told you 
have not seen them these several years, so 
you can have very little idea of what these 
young folks are now. Your brother is as tall 
aa you are, but slender rather than other- I 

26 



wise; and I have the satisfaction to inform 
you that he is getting the better of thoso 
consumptive symptoms whi<:h I suppose you 
know were threatening him. His make, and 
particularly his manner, resemble you, b>it 
he will still have a finer face. (I put m the 
word still, to please Mrs. Hamilton ) Good 
sense, modesty, and at the same time a just 
idea of that respect that man owes to man, 
and has a right in his turn to exact, are 
striking features in his character ; and, what 
with me is the Alpha and Omega, he has a 
heart that might adorn the breast of a poet ! 
Grace has a good figure, and the look of 
health and cheerfulness, but nothing else 
remarkable in her person. I scarcely ever 
saw so striking a likeness as is between her 
and your little Beenie ; the mouth and chin 
particularly. She is reserved at first ; but 
as we grew better acquainted, I was delighted 
with the native frankness of her manner, and 
the sterling sense of her observation. Of 
Charlotte I cannot speak in common terms 
of admiration : she is not only beautiful but 
lovely. Her form is elegant ; her features 
not regular, but they have the smile of 
sweetness and the settled complacency of 
good nature, in the highest degree ; and her 
complexion, now that she has happily re- 
covered her wonted health, is equal to Miss 
Burnet's. After the exercise of our riding 
to the Falls, Charlotte was exactly Dr. 
Donne's mistress : — 

-Her pure and eloquent blood 



Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought. 
That one would almost say her body thought. 

Her eyes are fascinating ; at once expressive 
of good sense, tenderness, and a noble 
mind. (36) 

I do not give you all this accoimt, my 
good Sir, to flatter you. I mean it to re- 
proach you. Such relations the first peer in 
the realm might own with pride ; then why 
do you not keep up more correspondence 
with these so amiable young folks ? I had 
a thousand questions to answer about you. 
I had to describe the little ones with the 
minuteness of anatomy. They were highly 
delighted when I told them that John (37) 
was so good a boy, and so fine a scholar, and 
that Willie was going on still very pretty : 
but I have it in commission to tell her from 
them that beauty is a poor, silly bauble 
without she be good. Miss Chalmers I had 
left in Edinburgh, but I had the pleasure of 
meeting with Mrs. Chalmers ; only L\i!y 
Mackenzie, being rather a little alarmuu y 
ill of a sore throat, somewhat marred our 
enjoyment 



202 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



1 sl^al! not be in Ayrshire for four weeks. 
My most respectful compliments to Mrs. 
Hamilton, Miss Kennedy, and Ur. Macken- 
zie. I siiall probably v\ rite him from some 
staije or other. I am ever. Sir, yours most 
gra^tefuUy, R. B. 



NO. LXIV. 

TO MR. WALKER, 

OP BLAIR AT HOLE. (38) 

Inverness, September 5lh, 1787. 

My Dear Sir. — I have just time to 
write the foregoing (39), and to tell you that 
it was (at least most part of it) the effusion 
of a half-hour I spent at Bruar. I do not 
mean it was extempore, for I have endea- 
voured to brush it up as well as Mr. Nicol's 
chat and the jogguig of the chaise would 
allow. It eases my heart a good deal, as 
rhyme is the coin with which a poet pays his 
debts of honour or gratitude. What I owe 
to the noble family of Athole, of the first 
kind, I shall ever proudly boast — what I owe 
of the last, so help me God in my hour of 
need ! 1 shall never forget. 

The '* little angel-band !" I declare I 
prayed for them very sincerely to-day at the 
Fall of Fyers. I shall never forget the fine 
family-piece I saw at Blair ; the amiable, 
the truly noble duchess (40), with her smiling 
little seraph in her lap, at the head of the 
table — the lovely "olive plants," as the 
Hebrew bard finely says, round the happy 
mother — the beautiful Mrs. G — , the lovely, 
sweit Miss C, &c., I wish I had the powers 
of Guido to do them justice! My Lord 
Duke's kind hospitality — markedly kind in- 
deed ; — Mr. Graham of Fintry's charms of 
conversation — Sir W.Murray's friendship: — 
in short, the recollection of all that polite, 
agreeable company, raises an honest glow in 
my bosom. K. B. 



TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Edinhuryh, 17th September, 1787. 

My Dear Brother. — I arrived here 
safe yesterday evening, after a tour of 
twenty-two days, and travelling near 600 
miles, windings included. My farthest 
stretch was about ten miles beyond Inver- 
ness. I went through the heart of the 
Highlands by Crief, Taymouth, the famous 
seat of Lord Breadalbane, down the Tay, 



among cascades and Druidical circles of 
stones, to Dunkeld, a seat of the Duke of 
Athole ; thence across Tay, and up one of 
his tributary streams to Blair of Athole, 
another of the Duke's seats, where I had the 
honour of spending nearly two days with his 
grace and family ; thence many miles 
through a wild country among cliffs, grey 
with eternal snows and gloomy savage glens, 
till I crossed Spey and went down the stream 
through Strathspey, — so famous in Scottish 
music (41), — Badenoch, &c. till I reached 
Grant Castle, where I spent half a day with 
Sir James Grant and family ; and then 
crossed the country for Fort George, but 
called by the way at Cawdor, the ancient 
seat of Macbeth; there I saw the identical 
bed in which tradition says king Duncan was 
murdered; lastly, from Fort George to In- 
verness. 

I returned by the coast, through Nairn, 
Forres, and so on, to Aberdeen, thence to 
Stonehive (42), where James Burness, from 
Montrose, met me by appointment. I spent 
two days among our relations, and found our 
aunts, Jean and Isabel, still alive, and hale 
old women. John Caird, though born the 
same year with our father, walks as vigorously 
as I can ; — they have had several letters from 
his son in New York. WilUam Brand is 
likewise a stout old fellow ; but further 
particulars I delay till I see you, which will 
be in two or three weeks. The rest of my 
stages are not worth rehearsing ; warm as I 
was from Ossian's country, where I had seen 
his very grave, what cared I for fishing-towns 
or fertile carses? I slept at the famous 
Brodie of Brodie's one night, and dined at 
Gordon Castle next day, with the duke, 
duchess, and family. I am thinking to cause 
my old mare to meet me, by means of John 
Ronald, at Glasgow ; but you shall hear 
farther from me before I leave Edinburgh. 
My duty and many compliments from the 
north to my mother; and my brotherly 
com))liments to the rest. I have been trying 
for a berth for William, but am not likely to 
be successful. Farewell. R. B. 



TO MISS MARGARET CHALMERS. (43) 

Se2}t. 26, 1787. 

I SEND Charlotte the first number of the 
songs ; I would not wait for the second 
number; I hate delays in httle marks of 
friendship, as I hate dissimulation in the 
language of the heart. I am determined to 



TO THE REV. JOUN SKINNEK. 



293 



pay Charlotte a poetic coiupliment, if I 
could hit on some glorious old Scotch air, in 
number second. (44) You will see a small 
attempt on a shred of paper in the book ; 
but though Dr. Blacklock commended it very 
highly, I am not just satisfied with it myself. 
I intend to make it a description of some kind; 
the whining cant of love, except in real pas- 
sion, and by a masterly hand, is to me as 
insufferable as the preaching cant of old 
Father Smeaton, w liig-minister at Kilmaurs. 
Darts, flames, Cupids, loves, graces, and all 

that farrago, are just a Mauchline , 

a senseless rabble. 

I got an excellent poetic epistle yesternight 
from the old venerable author of"Tulloch- 
gorum," " John of liadenyon," &c. (45). I 
suppose you know he is a clergyman. It is 
by far the finest poetic compliment I ever 
got. I will send you a copy of it. 

I go on Thursday or Friday to Dumfries, 
to wait on Mr. Miller about liis farms. Do 
tell that to Lady Mackenzie, that she may 
give me credit for a little wisdom. "I, 
Wisdom, dwell with Prudence." What a 
blessed fire-side 1 How happy showld I be 
to pass a winter evening under their vene- 
rable roof; and smoke a pipe of tobacco, or 
drink water-gruel with them ! With solemn, 
lengthened, laughter-quashing gravity of 
phiz ! What sage remarks on the good-for- 
nothing sons and daughters of indiscretion 
and folly ! And what frugal lessons, as we 
straitened the fire-side circle, on the uses of 
the poker and tongs ! 

Jliss N. is very w-ell, and begs to be 
remembered in the old way to you. I used 
all my eloquence, all the persuasive flourishes 
of the hand, and heart-melting modulation 
of periods in my power, to urge her out to 
Harvieston, but all in vain. My rhetoric 
seems quite to have lost its effect on the 
lovely half of mankind. I have seen the day 
— but this is a " tale of other years :" — On 
my conscience I believe that my heart has 
been so oft on fire that it is absolutely vitri- 
fied. I look on the sex with something like 
the admiration with which I regard the 
starry sky in a frosty December night. I 
admire the beauty of the Creator's workman- 
ship ; I am charmed with the wild but 
graceful eccentricity of their motions, and — 
wish them good night. I mean this with 
respect to a certain passion clout j'ai eu I'/ion- 
neur d'etre un miserable esclaoe : as for 
friendship, you and Charlotte have given inc 
pleasure, permanent pleasure, " which the 
world cannot give, nor take away," I hope, 
and which will outlast the heavens and tlie 
•iarth. K B. 



NO. LXVU. 

TO THE REV. JOHN SKIM NEK 

Edinhurcjh, October 2a, 1787. 

Reverend and Venerable Sir. — 
Accept, in plain dull prose, my most 
sincere thanks for the best poetical compli- 
ment I ever received. I assure you. Sir, as 
a poet, you have conjured up an airy demon 
of vanity in my fancy, which the best abilities 
in your other capacity would be ill able to 
lay. I regret, and while I live I shall re- 
gret, that when I was in the north, 1 had 
not the pleasure of paying a younger 
brother's dutiful respect to the author of the 
best Scotch song ever Scotland saw — " Tul- 
lochgorum's my Delight I" The world may 
think slightingly of the craft of song-ni.ikiiig, 
if they please; but. as Job says, " Oh that 
mine adversary had WTitten a book !" — let 
them try. There is a certain something in 
the old Scotch songs, a wild happiness of 
thought and expression, which peculiarly 
marks them, not only from English songs, 
but also from the modern efforts of soiig- 
wrights, in our native manner and language. 
The only remains of this enchantment, these 
spells of the imagination, rest with you. 
Our true brother, Ross of Lochlee, was like- 
wise " owre cannie " — " a wild warlock " — 
but now he sings ^inong the "sons of the 
morning." 

I have often wished, and will certainly 
endeavour, to form a kind of common ac- 
quaintance among all the genuine sons of 
Caledonian song. The world, busy in low 
prosaic pursuits, may overlook most of us ; 
but " reverence thyself." The world is not 
our peers, so we challenge the jury. We 
can lash that world, and find ourselves a 
very great source of aiiuisement and happi- 
ness independent of that world. 

There is a work going on in Edinburgh 
just now, which claims your best assistance. 
An engraver in this town has set about col- 
lecting and publishing all tlie Scotch songs, 
with the music, that can be found. Songs, 
in the English language, if by Scotchmen, 
are admitted, but the music must all be 
Scotch. Drs. Beattie and Blacklock are 
lending a hand, and the first musician in 
town presides over that department. I liave 
been absolutely crazed about it, collecting 
old stanzas, and every information remaining 
respecting their origin, authors, &c., &.C. 
This last is but a very fragment busiunss ; 
but at the end of his second number- -the 
first is already published— a small account 
will be givea of the authors, particularly U^ 



294 



CORRESroNDEXCE OF BURNS. 



preserve those of latter times. Your three 
songs, "Tiillochijorurn,"" John of Badenyoii," 
and " Ewie wi' tlie Crookit Horn," go in this 
second number. I was determined, before I 
jjot your letter, to write you, begging that 
you would let me know where the editions 
of these pieces may be found, as you would 
wish them to continue in future times ; and 
if you would be so kind to this undertaking 
as send any songs, of your own or others, 
that you would think proper to publish, 
your name will be inserted among the other 
authors — "nill ye, will ye." One half of 
Scotland already give your songs to other 
authors. Paper is done. I beg to hear 
from you ; the sooner the better, as I leave 
Edinburgh in a fortnight or three weeks. I 
am, with the warmest sincerity. Sir, your 
obliged bumble servant, R. H. 



NO. LXVIH. 

TO JAMES HOY, Esa 

GORDON CASTLE. (46) 

Edinhurrjh, October ZOth, 1787. 

Sin. — I will defend my conduct in giving 
you this trouble, on the best of Christian 
principles — " Whatsoever ye would that men 
should do unto you, do ye even so unto 
them." I shall certainly, among my legacies 
leave my latest curse to that unlucky pre- 
dicament which hurried — tore me away from 
Castle Gordon. May that obstinate son of 
Latin prose [Nicol] be curst to Scotch mile 
periods, and damned to seven league para- 
graphs ; while Declension and Conjugation, 
Gender, Number and Tense, under the 
ragged banners of Dissonance and Disar- 
rangement, eternally rank against him in 
hostile array. 

Allow me. Sir, to strengthen the small 
cliiiui 1 have to your acquaintance, by the 
following request. An engraver, James 
Johnson, in Edinburgh, has, not from mer- 
cenary views, but from an honest Scotch 
enthusiasm, set about collecting all our 
native songs, and setting them to music, 
particularly those that have never been set 
before. Clarke, the well-known musician, 
presides over the musical arrangement, and 
Drs. Beattie and Blacklock, Mr. Tytler of 
W'oodliouselee, and your liumble servant to 
the utmost of his small power, assist in 
toUecting the old poetry, or sometimes, for 
a line air, make a stanza when it has no 
words. The brats, too tedious to mention, 



claim a parental pang from my hardship. 1 
suppose it will appear in Johnson's second 
number — the first was published before my 
acquaintance with him. My request is — 
" Cauld Kail in Aberdeen " is one intended 
for this number, and I beg a copy of his 
Grace of Gordon's words to it, which you 
were so kind as to repeat to me. (47) You 
may be sure we won't prefix the author's 
name, except you like, though I look on it as 
no small merit to this work that the names 
of so many of the authors of our old Scotch 
songs, names almost forgotten, will be in- 
serted. I do not well know where to write 
to you — I rather write at you ; but if you 
will be so obliging, immediately on receipt of 
this, as to write me a few lines, I shall per- 
haps pay you in kind, though not in quality. 
Johnson's terms are : — each number a hand- 
some pocket volume, to consist of at least 
a hundred Scotch songs, with basses for the 
harpsichord, &c. The price to subscribers, 
5s. ; to non-subscribers, 63. He will have 
three numbers, I conjecture. 

My direction for two or three weeks will 
be at Mr. William Cruikshank's, St. James' 
Square, New Town, Edinburgh. I am. Sir, 
yours to command, R. B. 



NO. LXIX. 

TO THE SAME. 

GORDON C.\STLE. 

Edinburgh, November 6th, 1787. 
Dear Sir. — I would have wrote you 
immediately on receipt of your kind letter 
but a mixed impulse of gratitude and esteem 
whispered to me that I ought to send you 
something by way of return. When a poet 
owes anything, particularly when he is in- 
debted for good offices, the payment that, 
usually recurs to him — the only coin indeed 
in which he is probably conversant — is 
rhyme. Johnson sends the books by the 
fly, as directed, and begs me to enclose his 
most grateful tliauks ; my return I intended 
should have been one or two poetic baga- 
telles which the world have not seen, or, 
perhaps, for obvious reasons, cannot see. 
These I shall send you before I leave Edin- 
burgh. They may make you laugh a little, 
which, on the whole, is no bad way of spend- 
ing one's precious hours and still more pre- 
cious breath ; at any rate, they will be, 
though a small, yet a very sincere, mark of 
my respectful esteem for a gentleman whosft 



TO TITE RARL OF OT.vvr.ATnN. 



29« 



tarther acquaintance I should look upon as a 
fjeculiar obiijration. 

The duke's soii^, independent totally of 
his dukeship, charms me. There is I know 
not what of wild happiness of thought and 
expression peculiarly beautiful in the old 
Scottish sons; style, of wliich liis Grace, old 
venerable Skinner, the author of " Tulloch- 
gorum," S:c., and the late Koss, at Lochlee, 
of true Scottish poetic memory, are the 
only modern instances that I recollect, since 
Ramsay, with his contemporaries, and poor 
Bob Fergusson, went to the world of death- 
less existence and tridy immortal song. The 
mob of mankind, that many-headed beast, 
would laugh at so serious a speech about an 
old song; but as Job says, "Oh that mine 
adversary had written a book ! " Those who 
think that composing a Scotch song is a 
trifling business, let them try. 

I wish my Lord Duke would pay a proper 
attention to the Christian admonition — 
" Hide not your candle under a bushel," but 
" I^t your light shine before men." I could 
name half a dozen dukes that I guess are a 
devilish deal worse employed ; nay, I ques- 
tion if there are half a dozen better : per- 
haps there are not half that scanty number 
whom Heaven has favoured with the tuneful, 
happy, and 1 will say, glorious gift. I 
am, dear Sir, your obliged humble servant, 
K. B. 



TO ROBERT AINSLIE, Esa., 
EDINBURGH. 

Edinburgh, Sunday Morning, 
Noo. 23, 1787. 

r BEG, my dear Sir, you would not make 
any a]ipointnieut to take us to Mr. Ainslie's 
to-n;giit. On looking over my engagements, 
constitution, present state of my health, 
some little vexatioiis soul concerns, &c., 1 
find I can't sup abroad to-uiglit. I shall be 
in to-day till one o'clock, if you have a 
leisure hour. 

Yon will think it romantic when I tell 
you, that I tiud the idea of your friendship 
almost necessary to my existence. You 
assume a proper length of face in my bittiT 
hours of bliie-devilisni, and you laugh lully 
up to my highest wishes at my good things. 
I don't know, uiKin the whole, if you are 
one of the tirst fellows in God's world, but 
you Hre so to me 1 tell you this just now, 
in the conviction that some inequalities in 



my temper and manner may perhaps some- 
times make you suspect that I iim not 
80 warmly as 1 ought to be your friend, 

R. B. 



NO. LXXl. 



TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

Edinhurg.'i, 1787. 

My Lord. — I know your lordship will 
disapprove of my ideas in a reijuest 1 am 
going to make to you ; but I have weighed, 
long and seriously weighed, my situation, 
my ho[ies and turn of mind, and am fully 
fixed to ray scheme, if 1 can possibly effectu- 
ate it. I wish to get into the Excise : 1 am 
told that your lordship's interest will easily 
procure me the grant from the commission- 
ers ; and your lordship's patronage and 
gooilness, which ha\e already rescued me 
from obscurity, wretchedness and exile, 
embolden me to ask that interest. You 
have likewise put it in my power to save the 
little tie of home that sheltered an aged 
mother, two brothers, and three sisters, from 
destruction. There, my lord, you have 
bound me over to the liighest gratitude. 

My brother's farm is but a wretched 
lease, but I think he will probably weather 
out the remaining seven years of it ; and 
after the assistance which I have given, and 
will give him, to keep the family together, I 
think, by my guess, 1 shall have rather 
better than two hundred pounds, and instead 
of seeking, what is almost impossible at 
present to find, a farm that I can certainly 
live by, with so small a stock, 1 shall lodge 
this sum in a banking-house, a sacred 
deposit, excepting only the calls of un- 
common distress or necessitous old age. 

T'hese, my lord, are my views : 1 have 
resolved from the maturcst deliberation ; 
and now 1 am fixed, 1 shall leave no stone 
unturned to carry my resolve into execution. 
Your lordship's patronage is the strength of 
my hopes ; nor have 1 yet a|)plied to any- 
body else. Indeed, my heart sinks within 
me at the idea of applying to any other of 
the great who have honoured me with their 
countenance. I am ill qualified to dog the 
heels of greatness with the impertinence 
of solicitation, and tremble nearly as much 
at the thought of the cold promise as the 
cold denial ; but to your hjrdship I have 
not only the honour, the comfort, but the 
l)leasure of being your lordship's much 
obliged and deeply indebted humble servant, 
K. B. 



296 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



NO. LXXH. 

TO CHARLES HAY, Esq, ADVOCATE, 
(enclosing verses on the death op 

LORD president.) (48) 

Sir. — The enclosed poem was written in 
consequence of yowr suggestion, last time 1 
had the pleasure of seeuig you. It cost me 
an hour or two of next morning's sleep, but 
did not please me ; so it lay by, an ill-di- 
gested effort, till the other day that I gave 
it a critic brush. These kind of subjects 
are much hackneyed; and, besides, tlie 
waitings of the rhyming tribe over the ashes 
of the great are cursedly suspicious, and out 
of all character for snicerity. These ideas 
damped my muse's fire ; however, I have 
done the best I coidd, and, at all events, it 
gives me an opportunity of declaring that I 
have the honour to be, Sir, your obliged 
humble servant, B. B. 



NO. LXXIII. 

TO MISS M N. 



Saturday Noon, No. 2, St. James's Square, 
New Town, Edinhurcjh. 

Here have I sat, my dear Madam, in 
the stony altitude of perplexed study for 
fifteen vexatious minutes, my head askew, 
bending over the intended card ; my fixed 
eye insensible to the very light of day 
poured around ; my pendulous goose-feather, 
loaded with ink, hanging over the future 
letter, all for the important purpose of 
writing a complimentary card to accompany 
your trinket. 

Compliment is such a miserable Green- 
laud expression, lies at such chilly polar 
distance from the torrid zone of my con- 
stitution, that I cannot, for the very soul of 
me, use it to any person for whom I have 
the twentieth part of the esteem every 
tine must have for you who knows you. 

As 1 leave town in three or four days, I 
can gi\e myself the pleasure of calling on 
you only for a minute. Tuesday evening, some 
time about seven or after, I shall wait on 
you for your farewell commands. 

The hinge of your box I put into the hands 
of the i)roper connoisseur. The broken glass, 
likewise, went under review ; but deliberate 
wisdom thought it would too much endanger 
the whole fabric. I am, dear iMadain, with 
all sincerity of enthusiasm, your very obedi- 
ent servant. K. B. 



NO. LXXIV. 

TO MISS CHALMER3. 

Edinburgh, Nov. 21, 1787. 

I HAVE one vexatious fault to the kindly 
welcome well-filled sheet which I owe to 
your and Charlotte's (49j goodness— it con- 
tains too much sense, sentiment and good- 
spelling. It is impossible that even you 
two, whom I declare to my God I will give 
credit for any degree of excellence the sex 
are capable of attaining — it is impossible you 
can go on to correspond at that rate ; so, 
like those who, Shenstone says, retire 
because they have made a good speech, I 
shall, after a few letters, hear no more of 
you. I insist that you shall write whatever 
comes first : what you see, what you read, 
what you hear, what you admire, what yoii 
dislike, trifles, bagatelles, nonsense ; or to 
fill up a corner, e'en put down a laugh at 
full length. Now, none of your polite hints 
about flattery ; I leave that to your lovers, 
if you have or shall have any ; though, thank 
Heaven, I have at last two girls who can be 
luxuriantly happy in their own minds and 
with one another, without that commonly 
necessary appendage to female bliss — A 

LOVER. 

Charlotte and you are just two favourite 
resting-places for my soul in her wanderings 
through the weary, thorny wilderness of this 
world. God knows, I am ill-fitted for the 
struggle : I glory in being a poet, and I 
want to be thought a wise man — I would 
fondly be generous, and I wish to be rich. 
After all, I am afraid I am a lost subject. 
" Some folk hae a haiitle o' fauts, and I'm 
but a ne'er-do-weel." 

Afternoon.— To close the melancholy re- 
flections at the end of the last sheet, I shall 
just add a piece of devotion, commonly 
known in Carrick by the title of the " Wab- 
ster's grace : " — 

Some say we're thieves, and e'en sae are we; 
Some say we lie, and e'eji sae do we ! 
Guid forgie us, and I hope sae will he ! 
Up and to your looms, lads ! K B. 



NO. LXXV. 

TO THE SAME. 

Edinburgh, Dec. 12, 1787. 

I AJI here under the care of a surgeon, 
with a bruised limb extended on a cushion ; 
and the tints of my mind vying with the 
livid horror preceding a midnight tliuiiiler« 



TO inss CHALMERS. 



297 



storm. A drunken coaclimat. «'as tlie cause 
ot the first, and incomparably tlie lightest 
evil ; misfortune, bodily constitution, hell, 
and myself, have formed a " quadruple alli- 
ance " to guarantee the other. I got my fall 
on t?aturday, and am getting slowly bettri-. 

J have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, 
and am got through the five books of Closes, 
and half way in Joshua. It is really a glo- 
rious book. I sent for my book-binder to- 
day, and ordered him to get me an octavo 
Bible in sheets, the best paper and print in 
town, and bind it with all the elegance of his 
craft. 

I would give my best song to my worst 
enemy — I mean the merit of making it — to 
have you and Charlotte by me. You are 
angelic creatures, and would pour oil and 
wine into my wounded spirit. 

I enclose you a proof copy of the " Banks 
of the Devon," which present with my best 
wishes to Charlotte. Tlie"Ochil-hills " (50) 
you shall probably have next week for your- 
self. None of your fine speeches ! R. B. 



NO. LXXVI. 

TO THE SAME. 
Ediuhunjh, Bee. 19/A, 1787. 

I BEGIN this letter in answer to your's 
of the 17th current, which is not yet cold 
since I read it. The atmosphere of my soul 
is vastly clearer than when I wrote you last. 
For the first time, yesterday I crossed the 
room on crutches. It woulil do your heart 
srood to see my hardship, not on my poetic, 
nut on my oaken stilts ; throwing my best 
log with an air ! and w'ith as much hilarity 
in my gait and countenance, as a May frog 
leaping across the newly harrowed ridge, 
enjoying the fragrance of the refreshed earth, 
after the long-expected shower ! 

I can't say 1 am altogether at my ease 
when I see anywhere in my path that mea- 
gre, squalid, famine-faced spectre, poverty ; 
attended, as he always is, by iron-fisted 
oppression and leering contempt ; but 1 
have sturdily withstood his buffettings many 
a hard-laboured day already, and still my 
motto is — I DARE I Jly worst enemy is 
moi mime. I lie so miserably open to the 
inroads and incursions of a mischievous, 
light-armed, well-mounted banditti, under 
the banners of imagination, whim, caprice 
and passion ; and the heavy-armed veteran 
rrguhns of wisdom, prudence and fore- 
thouglit move so very, very slow, that I am 
almost in a state of perpetual warfare, and. 



iilas ! frequent defeat. There are just two 
creatures I w.ould envy ; a horse in his w ild 
state traversing the forests of Asia, or an 
oyster on some of the desert shores of 
Europe. The one has not a wish without 
enjoyment, the other has neither wish nor 
fear. R. B. 



NO. LXXVI I. 

TO THE SAME. 

Edinhuryh, Dec, 1787. 

My Dear IMadam. — I just now have 
read yours. The poetic compliments I pay 
cannot be misunderstood. They are neither 
of them so particular as to point you out to 
the world at large ; and the circle of your 
acquaintances will allow all I have said. 
Besides, I have complimented you chiefly, 
almost solely, on your mental charms. Shall 
I be plain with you? I will ; so look to it. 
Perso^l attractions, Jladam, you have much 
above par ; nit, understanding and worth, 
you possess in the first class. This is a 
cursed flat way of telling you these truths, 
but let me hear no more of your siieepisli 
timidity. I know the world a little. I know 
what they w ill say of my poems — by second 
sight, 1 suppose — for I am seldom out in my 
conjectures ; and you may believe me, my 
dear Madam, I would not run any risk of 
hurting you by any ill-judged compliment. 
I wish to show the world the odds between 
a poet's friends and those of simple prose- 
men. More for your information, both the 
pieces go in. One of them, " \\'hore braving 
angry Winter's Storms," is already set — the 
tune in Neil Gow's Lamentatton for Ahcr- 
cairny ; the other is to be set to an old 
Highland air in Daniel Dow's collection of 
ancient Scots music ; the name is " Ila a 
Chaillich air mo D/ieith." My treacherous 
memory has forgot every circumstance about 
Las Incas ; only, I think you mentioned 
them as being in Creech's possession. I 
shall ask him about it. I am afraid the song 
of " Somebody " will come too late — as I 
shall for certain leave town in a week for 
Ayrshire, and from that to Dumfries, but 
there my hopes are slender. I leave my 
direction in town ; so any thing, wherever I 
am, will reach me. 

I saw yours to ; it is not too 

severe, nor did he take it amiss. On the 
contrary, like a whipt spaniel, he talks of 
being with you in the Christmas days. iMr. 
has given k'ru the invitation, and he 



is determined to accept of it. Oh seliish- 



29.S 



CORRESPONDENCE OF I5UKNS. 



ness ! i\e owns, in his sober moments, that 
from his own volatility of inclination, the 
circumstances in which he is situated, and 
his knowledge of his father's disposition, tlie 
whole affair is chimerical — yet he ivill gratify 
an idle penchant at the enormous, cruel 
fxpciisc, of perhaps ruiniu": the peace of the 
very woman for «liom lie professes tlie 
generous passion of love ! He is a gentle- 
man ill his mind and manners— t«ni jjis/ 
He is a volatile school-boy — the heir of a 
man's fortune who well knows the value of 
two times two ! 

Perdition seize them and their fortunes, 
before they should make the amiable, the 

lovely , the derided object of their 

purse-proud contcuipt I 

I am doubly happy to hear of Mrs. 'a 

recovery, because I really thought all was 
over with her. There are days of pleasure 
yet awaiting her : — 

As I cam in by Glenap, 
I met with an aged woman ; 
She bade me cheer up my heart, 
For the best o' my days was comiu.' (51) 

This day will decide my affairs with Creech. 
Things are, like myself, not what they ought 
to be ; yet better than what they appear 
to be. 

Heaven's Sovereign saves all but himself — 
That hideous sight — a naked human heart. 

Farewell ! remember me to Charlotte. 
K. B. 



NO. LXXVIIl. 

TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 

Edinburgh, December, 1787. 

Sir. — Mr Mackenzie, in Mauchline, my 
very warm and worthy friend (52), has in- 
formed me how much you are pleased to 
interest yourself in my fate as a man, and 
(what to me is incomparably dearer) my fame 
as a poet. I have. Sir, in one or two instances, 
been patronised by those of your character 
in life, when I was introduced to their notice 
by * * » * * friends to them, and honoured 
acquaintances to me ; but you are the first 
gentleman in the country whose benevolence 
and goodness of heart has interested him- 
self for me, unsolicited and unknown. I am 
not master enough of the etiquette of these 
matters to know, nor did 1 stay to inquire, 
whttlicr formal duty bade, or cold propriety 
disrtllnwcl, my thanking you in this manner, 
wi 1 uiii couuuced, from the light in which 



you kindly view me, that you will do i.ie 
the justice to believe tins letter is not the 
manoeuvre of the needy, sharping author, 
fastening on those in upper life who honour 
him with a little notice of him and his works. 
Indeed, the situation of poets is generally 
such, to a proverb, as may, in some measure, 
palliate that prostitution of heart and talents 
they have at times been guilty of. 1 do not 
think prodigality is, by any means, a necessary 
concomitant of a poetic turn, but I believe a 
careless, indolent inattention to economy is 
almost inseparable from it ; then there must 
be in the heart of every bard of Nature's 
making a certain modest sensibility, mixed 
with a kind of pride, that will ever keep him 
out of the way of those windfalls of fortune 
which frequently light on hardy impudence 
and foot-licking servility. It is not easy to 
imagine a more helpless state than his whose 
poetic fancy unfits hiin for the world, and 
whose character as a scholar gives him some 
pretensions to the polileisse of life — yet is 
as poor as I am. 

For my part, I thank Heaven my star has 
been kinder ; learning never elevated my 
ideas above the peasant's shed, and I have 
an independent fortune at the plough-tail. 

I was surprised to hear that any one who 
pretended in the least to the manners of the 
gentleman, should be so foolish, or worse, as 
to stoop to traduce the morals of such a one 
as 1 am, and so unhumanly cruel, too, as to 
meddle with that late most unfortunate, un- 
happy part of my story. With a tear of 
gratitude, 1 thank you, Sir, for the warmth 
with which you interposed in behalf of iny 
conduct. I am, I acknovk-ledge, too frequently 
the sport of whim, caprice and passion ; but 
reverence to God, ami integrity to my fellow- 
creatures, I hope 1 shall ever preserve. I 
have no return. Sir, to make you for your 
goodness but one — a return which, I am per. 
suaded, will not be unacceptable — the honest, 
warm wishes of a grateful heart for your 
happiness, and every one of that lovely flock 
who stand to you in a filial relation. If ever 
calumny aim the poisoned shaft at them, 
may friendship be by to ward the blow ! 
R. B. 



NO. LXXIX. 

MISS MARG.\RET CHALIMERS. 
December, 1787. 

I HAVE been at Dumfries, and at one visit 
more shall be decided about a farm in that 
county. I am rather hopeless in it ; but as 



TO MISS WILLIAMS. 



299 



my brother is an excellent farmer, and is, 
besides, an exceedingly prudent sober man 
(qualities which are only a younjjer brother's 
fortune in our family;, I am determined, if 
my Dumfries business fail me, to remove into 
partnership with him, and at our leisure take 
another farm in the nei':fhbourhood. 

I assure you I look for high compliments 
from you and Charlotte on this very sa;;e 
instance of my unfathomable, incomprehen- 
sible wisdom. — Talking of Charlotte 1 must 
tell her that I have, to the best of my 
power, paid her a poetic compliment now 
completed. The air is admirable ; true old 
lli<;hland. It was the tune of a Gaelic 
song wliich an Inverness lady sang me when 
I was there ; I was so charmed with it, that 
I begged her to write me a set of it from her 
singing, for it had never been set before. I 
am fixed that it shall go in Johnson's next 
number; so Charlotte and you need not 
spend your precious time in contradicting 
nie. I won't say the poetry is first-rate, 
though I am convinced it is very well ; and, 
what is not always the case with compli- 
ments to ladies, it is not only sincere, but 
just. R. B. 



NO. LXXX. 

TO MISS AVILLIAMS (53), 

on reading the poem op the slave- 
trade". 

Ediiihuryh, Dec, 1787. 

I KNOW very little of scientific criticism, 
BO all I can pretend to in that intricate art is 
merely to note, as I read along, w hat passages 
strike me as being uncommonly beautiful, 
and where the expression seems to be per- 
plexed or faulty. 

The poem opens finely. There are none 
of those idle prefatory lines which one may 
skip over before one comes to the subject. 
Verses 9tli and 10th in particular. 

Where ocean's unseen bound 
Leaves a drear world of waters round, 

are truly beautiful. The simile of the hur- 
ricane is likewise fine ; and, indeed, beautiful 
as the poem is, almost all the similes rise 
decidedly above it. From verse 31st to verse 
50th is a pretty eulogy on Britain. Verse 
30th, " 'Hiat foul drama deep with wrong," 
is uohty expressive. Verse 4Gth, I am afraid, 
is rather unworthy of the rest ; " to dare to 
feel," is an idea that I do not altogether like. 
Tlie contrast of valour and mercy, from the 
t6th verse to the 50th, is admirable. 



27 



Either my apprehension is dull, or there 
is something a little confused in the apos- 
trophe to Mr. Pitt. Verse 5.5th is the ante- 
cedent to verses 57th and 58, but in verse 
5dth the connection seems ungraminatical :— 

Powers • • • 

* • • • 

AA'ith no gradations mark'd their flight, 
But rose at once to glory's height. 

Ris'n should be the word instead of rose. 
Try it in prose. " Powers — their flight mar- 
ked by no gradations, but [tha same powers] 
risen at once to the height of glory." Like- 
wise, verse 53rd, " For this," is evidently 
meant to lead on the sense of the verses 
59th, GOth, 61st and 62nd; but let us try 
how the thread of connection runs — 

For this • • • 

* • • • 

The deed of mercy, that embrace, 
A distant sphere, an alien race, 
Shall virtue's lips record, and claim 
The fairest honours of thy name. 

I beg pardon if I misapprehend the mafcr, 
but this appears to n;e the only imp,. feet 
passage in tlie poem. The comparison of tlie 
sunbeam is fine. 

The compliment to the Duke of Richmond 
is, I hope, as just as it is certainly elegant. 
The thought. 

Virtue • • • 

• • • • 

Sends from her unsullied source. 

The gems of thought their purest force, 

is exceedingly beautiful. The idea, from 
verse 81st to the 85th, that the " blest 
decree" is like the beams of morning ushering 
in the glorious day of liberty, ought not to 
pass unnoticed orunapplauded. From verse 
85th to verse 108, is an animated contrast 
between the unfeeling selfishness of the op- 
pressor on the one hand, and the misery of 
the captive on the other. Verse 88th might 
perhaps be amended thus: — "Nor ever quit 
her narrow maze." We are said to pass a 
bound, but we quit a maze. Verse 100th is 
exquisitely beautiful : — 

They, whom wasted blessings tire. 

Verse 110th is, I doubt, a clashing of mcta. 
phors; "to load a span" is, I am afraid, au 
unw^arrantable expression. In verse 114th, 
" Cast the universe in shade," is a fine idea. 
From the 115th verse to tiie 14:iiid is a 
striking description of the wrongs of the 
poor African Ver.se 120th, "The load of 
unremitted paiu," is a remarkable, strong 



300 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



expression. The address to the advocates 
for abolishing the slave-trade, from verse 
143rd to verse 208th, is animated with the 
true life of genius. The picture of oppres- 
sion — 

While she links her impious chain. 
And calculates the price of pain ; 
Weighs agony in sordid scales. 
And marks if death or life prevails— 

is nobly executed. 

What a tender idea is in verse 180th! 
Indeed, tliat whole description of home may 
vie with Thomson's description of home, 
somewhere in the beginning of his Autumn. 
I do uot remember to have seen a stronger 
expression of misery than is contained in 
these verses : — 

Condemned, severe extreme, to live 
When all is fled that life can give. 

The comparison of our distant joys to distant 
objects is equally original and striking. 

Tlie character and manners of the dealer 
in the infernal traffic is a well done, though 
a horrid picture. I am not sure how far 
introducing the sailor was right ; for though 
the sailor's common characteristic is gene- 
rosity, yet, in this case, he is certainly not 
only an unconcerned witness, but, in some 
degree, an efficient agent in the business. 
Verse 224th is nervous and expressive — 
" The heart convulsive anguish breaks." 
The description of the captive wretch when 
he arrives in the West Indies, is carried on 
with equal spirit. The thought that the 
oppressor's sorrow, on seeing the slave pine, 
is like the butcher's regret when his destined 
lamb dies a natural death, is exceedingly 
fine. 

I am got so much into the cant of criti- 
cism, that I begin to be afraid lest I have 
nothing except the cant of it ; and instead 
of elucidating my author, am only benigliting 
myself. For this reason, I will not pretend 
to go through the wliole poem. Some few 
remaining beautiful lines, however, I cannot 
pass over. Verse 280th is the strongest 
description of selfishness I ever saw. The 
comparison in verses 285th and 286th is 
new and fine; and the line, "Your arms to 
penury you lend," is excellent. 

In verse 317th, "like" should certainly be 
"as" or "so;" for instance: — 

His sway the hardened bosom leads 

To cruelty's remorseless deeds : 

As (or, so) the blue lightning when it springs 

With fury on its livid wings, 

Darts on the goal with rapid force, 

Nor heeds that ruin marks its course. 



If you insert the word "like" where I 
have placed "as," you must alter "darts" 
to " darting," and " heeds " to " heeding," in 
order to make it grammar. A tempest is a 
favourite subject with the poets, but I do 
not r.member any thing, even in Thomson's 
winter, superior to your verses from the 
347th to the 351st. Indeed, the last simile, 
beginning with "Fancy may dress," &c., 
and ending with the 350th verse, is, in my 
opinion, the most beautiful passage in the 
poem ; it would do honour to the greatest 
names that ever graced our profession. 

I will not beg your pardon. Madam, for 
these strictures, as my conscience tells me, 
that for once in my life I have acted up to 
the duties of a Christian, in doing as I would 
be done by. R. B. 



NO. LXXXI. 



TO MR. RICHARD BROWN, 

IRVINE. (54) 

Edinburgh, Dec. SO t/i, 1787. 

My Dear Sir. — I have met with few- 
things in life which have given me more 
pleasure than Fortune's kindness to you 
since those days in which we met in the vale 
of misery; as I can honestly say, that I 
never knew a man who more truly deserved 
it, or to whom my heart more truly wished 
it. I have been liiuch indebted since that 
time to your story and sentiments for 
steeUng my mind against evils, of wliich I 
have had a pretty decent share. My will-o'- 
wisp fate you know : do you recollect a 
Sunday we spent together in Eglinton 
woods? You told me, on my repeating 
some verses to you, that you wondered I 
could resist the temptation of sending verses 
of such merit to a magazine. It was from 
this remark I derived that idea of my own 
pieces which encouraged me to endeavour at 
the character of a poet. I am happy to 
hear that you will be two or three months 
at home. As soon as a bruised limb will 
permit me, I shall return to Ayrshire, and 
we shall meet ; " aiul faith, I hope we'll uot 
sit dumb, nor yet cast out !" 

I have much to tell you " of men, their 
maimers, and their ways," perhaps a little of 
the other sex. Apropos, 1 beg to be remem- 
bered to Mrs. Brown. There, I doubt not, 
my dear friend, but you have found sub- 
stantial happiness. I expect to find yon 
something of an altered, but not a different 
man ; the wild, bold, generous young fellow 
composed into the steady, affectionate 



TO CLARINDA 



301 



Inisband, and the fond careful parent. For 
me, I am just ilie same will-o'-wisp being I 
used to be. About the first and fourth 
quarters of the moon, I generally set in for 
the trade-wind of wisdom ; but about the 
full and change, I am the luckless victim of 
mad tornadoes, which blow me into chaos. 
Almighty love still reigns and revels in my 
bosom ; and I am, at this moment, ready to 
hang myself fur a young Edinburgh widow 
(55), who has wit and wisdom more murde- 
rously fatal than the assassinating stiletto of 
the Sicilian bandit, or the poisoned arrow of 
the savage African. My Highland dirk, 
that used to hang beside my crutches, I have 
gravely removed into a neighbouring closet, 
the key of which I cannot command in case 
of spring-tide paroxysms. You may guess 
of her wit by the following verses, which she 
sent me the other day : — 

Talk not of love, it gives me pain, 

For love has been my foe ; 
He bound me with an iron chain. 

And plunged me deep in woe ! 

But friendship's pure and lasting joys. 

My heart was formed to prove- 
There, welcome, win and wear the prize. 
But never talk of love ! 

Your friendship much can make me blest — 

Oh, why that bliss destroy ? 
^Vhy urge the odious one request. 

You know I must deny ? 

My best compliments to our friend Allan. 
Adieu ! B- B. 



NO. LXXXII. 



TO MR. GAVIN HAIMILTON. 

Edinburgh, Dec, 1787. 

My Dear Sir. — It is indeed with the 
highest pleasure that I congratulate you on 
the return of days of ease and nights of 
pleasure, after the horrid hours of misery in 
which I saw you suffering existence when 
last in Ayrshire. I seldom pray for any- 
body — " I'm baith dead-sweer and wTetched 
ill o't;" but most fervently do I beseech 
the Power that directs the world, that you 
may live long and be happy, but live no 
longer than you are happy. It is needless 
for me to advise you to have a reverend care 
of your health. I know you will make it a 
point never at one time to drink more than 
a pint of wine (1 mean an English pint), and 
that you will never be witness to more than 
one bowl cf punch at a time, and that cold 



drams you will never more taste ; and, above 
all things, I am convinced, that after drinking 
perhaps boiling punch you will never mount 
your horse and gallop home in a chill late 
hour. Above all things, as 1 understand you 
are in habits of intimacy with that Boanerges 
of gospel powers. Father Auld, be earnest 
with him that he will wrestle in prayer for 
you, that you may see the vanity of vanities 
in trusting to, or even practising, the casual 
moral works of charity, humanity, generosity, 
and forgiveness of things, which you practised 
so flagrantly, that it was evident you de- 
lighted in them, neglecting, or perhaps pro- 
fanely despising, the wholesome doctrine of 
faith without works, tl^ only author of 
salvation. A hymn of thanksgiving would, 
in my opinion, be highly becoming from you 
at present, and in my zeal for your well- 
being, I earnestly press on you to be diligent 
in chanting over the two enclosed pieces of 
sacred poesy. My best compliments to Mrs, 
Hamilton and Miss Kennedy. Yours, &c 
R. B. 



NO. LXXXIII. 

TO CLARINDA. 

Thursday Evening. 

Mad.\m, (56) — I had set no small store 
by my tea-drinking to-night, and have not 
often been so disappointed. Saturday even- 
ing I shall embrace the opportunity with 
the greatest pleasure. I leave this town 
this day sen'night, and, probably for a 
couple of twelvemonths ; but must ever re- 
gret that I so lately got an acquaintance I 
shall ever highly esteem, and in whose 
welfare I shall ever be warmly interested. 

Our worthy common friend, in her usual 
pleasant way, rallied me a good deal on my 
new acquanitance, and in the humour of her 
ideas I wrote some lines, which I enclose 
you, as I think they have a good deal of 

poetic merit ; and Miss tells me you are 

not only a critic, but a poetess. Fiction, 
you know, is the native region of poetry; 
and I hope you will pardon my vanity in 
sending you the bagatelle as a tolerable off- 
hand jeu-d'esprit. I have several poetic 
trifles, which I shall gladly leave with Miss 
, or you, if they were worth house- 
room ; as there are scarcely two people on 
earth by whom it woidd mortify me r.iore to 
be forgotten, though at the distance of nine- 
score miles. — I am. Madam, with the highest 
respect, your very humble servant, 

R -B. 



302 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS, 



NO. LXXXIV. 

TO THE SAME. (57) 

Saturday Eveninij. 

I CAN say witli truth, Madam, that I 
never met with a person in my hfe whom I 
more anxiously wished to meet again than 
yourself. To-night I was to ha\e had that 
very great pleasure ; I was intoxicated with 
the idea, but an unlucky fall from a coach 
has so bruised one of my knees that I can't 
stir my leg ; so if I don't see you again, I 
shall not rest in my grave for chagrin. I 
was vexed to the soul I had not seen you 
sooner ; I determined to cultivate your 
friendship with the enthusiasm of religion ; 
but thus lias Fortune ever served me. I 
cannot bear the idea of leavhig Edinburgh 
without seeing you. I know not how to 
account for it — I am strangely taken with 
some people, nor am I often mistaken. You 
are a stranger to me; but I am an odd 
being ; some yet unnamed feelings, things, 
not principles, but better than whims, carry 
me farther than boasted reason ever did a 
philosopher. — Farewell 1 every happiness be 
yours ! 



NO. LXXXV. 

TO THE SAME. 



Friday Evening, Dec. 22iid, 1787. 

I BEG your pardon, my dear "Clarinda," 
for the fragment scrawl I sent you yester- 
day. (58) I really do not know what I 
wrote. A gentleman, for whose character, 
abilities, and critical knowledge, 1 have the 
highest veneration, called in just as I had 
begun the second sentence, and I would not 
make the porter wait. I read to my much 
respected friend some of my own bagatelles, 
and, among others, your lines, which I had 
copied out. He began some criticisms on 
them as on the other pieces, when I informed 
him they were the work of a young lady in 
this town, which, I assure you, made him 
etare. My learned friend seriously pro- 
tested that he did not believe any young 
woman in Edinburgh was capable of such 
lines : and if you know anything of Pro- 
fessor Gregory, you will neither doubt of 
his abilities nor hi3 sincerity. I do love you, 
if possilile, still better for having so ftne a 
tasie and turn for poesy. I have again gone 
wrong in my usual unguarded way, but you 
may erase the word, and put esteem, respect, 
or any other tame Dutch expression you 



please in its place. 1 believe there is no 
holding converse, nor carrying on corres- 
pondence, with an amiable woman, much 
less a ijloriously amiable, fine woman, with- 
out some mixture of that delicious passion, 
whose most devoted slave I have more than 
once had the honour of being. — But why 
be hurt or offended on that account ? Can 
no honest man have a prepossession for a 
fine woman, but he must run his head 
against an intrigue? Take a little of the 
tender witchcraft of love, and add it to the 
generous, the honourable sentiments of 
manly friendship : and I know but one more 
delightful morsel, which few, few in any 
rank ever taste. Such a composition is like 
adding cream to strawberries ; it not only 
gives the fruit a more elegant richness, 
but has a peculiar deliciousness of its 
own. 

I enclose you a few lines I composed on 
a late melancholy occasion. I will not give 
above five or six copies of it at all, and I 
would be hurt if any friend should give any 
copies without my consent. 

You cannot imagine, Clarinda (I like the 
idea of Arcadian names in a commerce of 
this kind;, how much store I have set by the 
hopes of your future friendship. I do not 
know if you have a just idea of my charac- 
ter, but I wish you to see me as I am. 1 
am, as most people of my trade are, a strange 
will-o'-wisp being ; the victim, too fre- 
quently, of much imprudence and many 
follies. My great constituent elements are 
pride and passion. The first I have en- 
deavoured to humanize into integrity and 
honour ; the last makes me a devotee to the 
warmest degree of enthusiasm, in love 
religion, or friendship — either of them, or- 
all together, as I happen to be inspired. 
'Tis true, I never saw you but once ; but 
how much acquaintance did I form with you 
in that once ! Do not think I flatter you, 
or have a design upon you, Clarinda ; I have 
too much pride for the one, and too little 
cold contrivance for the other ; but of all 
God's creatures I ever could approach in the 
beaten way of ray acqiiaintance, you struck 
me with the deepest, the strongest, the 
most permanent impression. I say, tiie 
most permanent, because I know myself 
well, and how far I can promise either in 
my prepossessions or powers. Why are 
you unhappy? And why are so many of 
our fellow-creatures, unworthy to belong to 
the same species with you, blest with all 
they can wish ? You have a hand all- 
benevolent to give ; why are you denied 
the pleasure? You have a heart formed — 



TO CLAIIINDA 



303 



gloriously formed — for all the most refineil 
luxuries of love — AVhy was that heart ever 
wTUiig ? O Clarinda ! shall we not meet 
in a state, some yet unknown state of bcinfj, 
where the lavish hand of plenty shall 
minister to the liij;hest wish of benevolence; 
and where tlie chill north-wind of prudence 
shall never blow over the flowery fields of 
enjoyment ? If we do not, man was made 
in vain ! I deserved most of the unhappy 
hours that have lingered over my head ; 
they were the wages of my labour: hut 
what unprovoked demon, malignant as hell, 
stole on the confidence of unmistrnsting 
bu-i !'ite, and dashed yowr cup of hfe with 
undeserved sorrow ? 

Let me know how long your stay will be 
out of town ; I shall coiuit the hours till 
you inform me of your return. Cursed 
etiquette forbids your seeing me just now ; 
and so soon as I can walk I must bid Edin- 
burgh adieu. Lord, why was I born to see 
misery which I cannot relieve, and to meet 
with friends whom I cannot enjoy ? I look 
back with tlie pang of unavailing avarice on 
my loss in not knowing you sooner : all last 
winter, these three months past, what luxury 
of i[itercourse have I not lost ! Perhaps, 
though, 'twas better for my peace. You see 
I am either above, or incapable of, dissimu- 
lation. I believe it is want of that particu- 
lar genius. I despise design, because I want 
either coolness or wisdom to be capable of it. 
I am interrupted. — Adieu! my dear Clarinda! 

SVLVANOEK. 



NO. LXXXVI. (59) 

TO THE SAME 

You are right, my dear Clarinda; a 
friendly correspondence goes for nothing, 
except one writes his or her undisguised sen- 
timents. Yotirs please me for their intrinsic 
merit, as well as because they are yours, 
which, I assui'e you, is to me a high recom- 
mendation. Your religious sentiments. 
Madam, I revere. If you have, on some 
suspicious evidence, from some lying oracle, 
learned that I despise or ridicule so sacredly 
important a matter as real religion, you have, 
my Clarinda, much misconstrued your friend. 
" I am not mad, most noble Festus !" Have 
you ever met a perfect character ? Do we 
not sometimes rather exchange faults than 
get rid of them ? For instance, I am perhaps 
tired with, and shocked at, a life too mucii 
the prey of giddy inconsistencies and 

27 



thoughtless follies; by degrees I grow sober, 
prudent, and statedly pious — I say statedly, 
because the most unaffected devotion is not 
at all inconsistent with my first character — 
I join the world in congratulating myself on 
the hap[)y change. But let me pry more 
narrowly into this affair. Have I, at bot- 
tom, any thing of a secret pride in these 
endowments and emendations? Have I 
nothing of a presbyterian sourness, an hypo- 
critical severity, when I survey my less 
regular neighbours ? In a word, iiave I 
missed all those nameless and numberless 
modifications of indistinct selfishness, which 
are so near our own eyes that we can scarcely 
bring them within the sphere of our vision, 
and which the known spotless cambric of our 
character hides from the ordinary observer ? 

My definition of worth is short; truth and 
humanity respecting our fellow-creatures ; 
reverence and humility in the presence of 
that Being, my Creator and Preserver, and 
who, I have every reason to believe, will one 
day be my Judge. The first part of my 
definition is the creature of unbiassed in- 
stinct ; the last is the child of after reflection. 
Where I found these two essentials, I would 
gently note, and slightly mention, any at- 
tendant flaws — flaws, the marks, the conse- 
quences, of human nature. 

I can easily enter into the sublime 
pleasures that your strong ihiagination and 
keen sensibility must derive from religion, 
particularly if a little in the shade of mis- 
fortune : but I own I cannot, without a 
marked grudge, see Heavi,n totally engross 
so amiable, so charming, a woman as my 
friend Clarinda; and should be very well 
pleased at a circumstance that would put it 
ill the power of somebody (happy somebody!) 
to divide her attention, with all the delicacy 
and tenderness of an earthly attachment. 

You will not easily persuade me that you 
have not a grammatical knowledge of the 
English language. So far from being inac- 
curate, you are eloquent beyond any woman 
of ray acquaintance, except one, whom I wish 
you knew. 

Your last verses to me have so delighted 
me that I have got an excellent old Scots air 
that suits the measure, and you shall see 
them in print in the Scots Musical Museum, 
a work publishing by a friend of mine in tliis 
town. I want foui stanzas ; you gave me 
but three, and one of them alhided to an 
expression in my former letter ; so 1 have 
taken your first two verses, with a 
slight alteration in the second, and have 
added a third ; but you must help me to a 
fourth. Here they vre : tlic latter half of 



3U4 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURXS. 



the first stanza would have heen worthy of 
Sappho ; I am in raptures with it. 

Talk not of love, it gives me pain. 

For love has been my foe ; 
He bound me with an iron chain. 

And sunk me deep in woe. 

But Friendship's pure and lasting joys 
My heart was formed to prove ; 

There, welcome, win, and wear the prize. 
But never talk of love. 

Your friendship much can make me blest, 
O why that bliss destroy ! 
[only] 
Why urge the odious one request, 
[will] 
You know I must deny. 

The alteration in the second stanza is no 
improvement, but there was a slight inaccu- 
racy in your rhyme. The third I only offer 
to your choice, and have left two words for 
your determination. The air is ' The Banks 
of Spey,' and is most beautiful. 

To-morrow evening I intend taking a 
chair, and paying a visit at Park Place to a 
much-valued old friend. If I could be sure 
of finding you at home (and I will send one 
of the chairmen to call), I would spend from 
five to six o'clock with you, as I go past. I 
cannot do more at this time, as I have some- 
thing on my hand that hurries me much. I 
propose giving you the first call, my old 

friend the second, and Miss as I 

return home. Do not break any engage- 
ment for me, as I will spend another evening 
with you, at any rate, before I leave town. 

Do not tell me that you are pleased when 
your friends inform you of your faults. I am 
ignorant what they are ; but 1 am sure they 
must be such evanescent trifles, compared 
with your personal and mental accomphsh- 
ments, that I would despise the ungenerous 
narrow soul who would notice any shadow of 
imperfections you may seem to have, any 
otiier way than in the most delicate, agree- 
able raillery. Coarse minds are not aware 
how much they injure the keenly feeling tie 
of bosom friendship, when, iu their foolish 
otliciousness, tliey mention what nobody 
cares for recollecting. People of nice sensi- 
ability and generous minds have a certain in- 
trinsic dignity that fires at being trifled 
with, or lowered, or even too nearly ap- 
proached. 

You need make no apology for long let- 
ters : I am even with you. Many happy 
new years to you, charming Clarinda ! I 
can't dissemble, were it to shun perdition. 
He who sees you as I have done, and does 



not love you, deserves to be damn'd for his 
stupidity ! He who loves you, and would 
injure you, deserves to be doubly damn'd for 
hisvilliany! Adieu. Sylvander. 

P. S. What would you think of this for a 
fourth stanza ? 

Your thought, if love must harbour there, 

Conceal it in that thought. 
Nor cause me from my bosom tear 

The very friend I sought. 



NO. LXXXVII. 

TO THE SAME. 

Monday Evening, 11 o'clock, 
January 2ist, 1788. 

Why have I not heard from you, Clarinda ? 
To-day I expected it; and before supper, 
wlien a letter to me was announced, my 
heart danced with rapture; but behold, 'twas 
some fool who had taken it in his head to 
turn poet, and made me an ofi'ering of the 
first-fruits of his nonsense. "It is not 
poetry, but prose run mad." Did I ever 
repeat to you an epigram I made on a Mr. 
Elphinstone, who has given a translation of 
Martial, a famous Latin poet ?— The poetry 
of Elphinstone can only equal his prose 
notes. I was sitting in the shop of a mer- 
chant of my acquaintance, waiting some- 
body; he put Elphinstone into my hand, and 
asked my opinion of it ; I begged leave to 
write it on a blank leaf, which 1 did. 

TO MR. ELPHINSTONE, &c. 
O thou, whom poesy abhors ! 
Whom prose has turned out of doors ! 
Heard'st thou that groan? proceed no further; 
'Twas laurel'd Martial roaring Murther. 

I am determined to see you, if at all pos- 
sible, on Saturday evening. Next week I 
must sing — 

The night is my departing night, 

The morn's the day I maun awa ; 
There's neither friend nor foe o' mine. 

But wishes that I were awa ! 
"Uliat I hae done, for lack o' wit, 

I never, never, can reca' ; 
I hope ye're a' my friends as yet. 

Quid night, and joy be wi' you a'! 

If I could see you sooner, I would be so 
much the happier; but I would not purchase 
the dearest gratification on earth, if it must 
be at your expense in worldly censure, far 
less inward peace ! 

I shall certainly be ashamed of thus 



TO CLARINDA. 



30.5 



scrawlins: whole sheets of incoherence. The 
only unity (a sad word with poets and critics!) 
in my ideas is Clarinda. There my heart 
" reikis and revels." 

"What art thou, Love? whence are those 
cliarms, 

That thus thou bear'st an universal rule? 
For thee the soldier quits his arms, 

The king turns slave, the wise man fool. 
In vain we chase thee from the field, 

And with cool thoughts resist thy yoke; 
Next tide of blood, alas! we yield ; 

And all those high resolves are broke! " 

I like to have quotations for every occasion. 
They give one's ideas so pat, and save one 
the trouble of finding expression adequate 
to one's feelhigs. I think it is one of tlie 
greatest pleasures, attending a poetic genius, 
that we can give our woes, cares, joys, loves, 
&c., an embodied form in verse, which to me 
is ever immediate ease. Goldsmith says 
finely of his Muse : — 

" Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe, 
Thou found'st me poor at first, and keep'st 
me so." 

My limb has been so well to-day, that I 
have gone up and down stairs often without 
my staff. To-morrow I hope to walk once 
again on my own legs to dinner. It is only 
uext street — Adieu. 

Sylvandeb. 



NO. LXXXVIII. 

TO THE SAME. 



Saturday Noon, January 2tjth, 1783. 

Some days, some nights, nay, some hours, 
like the " ten righteous persons in Sodom," 
save the rest of the vapid, tiresome, miser- 
able months and years of life. One of these 
hours, my dear Clarinda blessed me with 
yesternight. 

' One well spent hour. 



In such a tender circumstance for friends. 
Is better than an age of common time ! " 
Thomson. 

My favourite feature in Milton's Satan it 
his manly fortitude in supporting what can- 
not be rcmedieil— in short, the wild broken 
fragments of a noble exalted mind in ruins. 
1 meant no more by saying he was a favourite 
hero of mine. 

I mentioned to you ray letter to Dr. 
ftloore, giving an account of my life : it is 



truth, every word of it ; and will give you 
the just idea of a man whom you have hon- 
oured with your friendship. 1 am afraid you 
will hardly be able to make sense of so torn 
a piece.— Your verses I shall muse on deli- 
ciously, as I gaze on your image in my 
mind's eye, in my heart's core ; they will be 
in time enough for a week to come. I am 
truly happy your head-ache is better. — O, 
how can pain or evil be so daringly, unfeel- 
ingly, cruelly savage as to wound so noble a 
mind, so lovely a form ! 

My little fellow is all my name-sake.^ 
Write me soon. My every, strongest good 
wishes attend you, Clarinda ! 

Sylvander. 

I know not what I have written — I am 
pestered with people around me. 



NO. LXXXIX. 



TO THE SAME. 

Sunday Nii/ht, January 27th, 1788. 

The impertinence of fools has joined with 
a return of an old indisposition, to make me 
good for nothing to-day. The paper has 
lain before me all this evening, to write to 
my dear Clarinda, but — 

" Fools rush'd on fools, as waves succeed to 
waves." 

I cursed them in my soul ; they sacrilegi- 
ously disturbed my meditations on her who 
holds m^ heart. AVhat a creature is man I 
A httle alarm last night and to-day, that I 
am mortal, has made such a revolution on 
my spirits ! There is no philosophy, no 
divinity, comes half so home to the mind. 
I have no idea of courage that braves heaven. 
'Tis the wild ravings of an imaginary hero 
in bedlam. 

I can no more, Clarinda ; I can scarcely 
hold up my head ; but I am happy you do 
not know it, you would be so uneasy. 

Sylvander. 



Monday Mommy, January 28/A, 1788, 

I am, my lovely friend, much better this 
morning on the whole ; but I have a horrid 
laiigour on my spirits. 

" Sick of the world, and all its joys, 
My soul in pining sadness mourns ; 

Dark scenes of woe my mind employs. 
The past and present in then: turns." 



806 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



Have you ever met with a saying of the 
great, and likewise good Mr. Locke, author 
of the famous Essay on the Human Under- 
standing ? He wrote a letter to a friend, 
directing it " not to be delivered till after 
my decease : " it ended thus — " I know you 
loved me when living, and will preserve my 
memory now I am dead. All the use to be 
made of it is, that this life affords no solid 
satisfaction, but in the consciousness of 
having done well, and the hopes of another 
life. Adieu ! I leave my best wishes with 
you. — J. Locke." 

Clarinda, may I reckon on your friendship 
for life ? I think I may. Thou Almighty 
Preserver of men 1 thy friendship, which 
hitherto I have too much neglected, to secure 
it, shall all the future days and nights of my 
life, be my steady care ! The idea of my 
Clarinda follows — 

"Hide it my heart, within that close disguise. 
Where mix'd with God's, her lov'd idea lies." 

But I fear that inconstancy, the conse- 
quent imperfection of human weakness. 
Shall I meet with a friendship that defies 
years of absence, and the chances and changes 
of fortune ? Perhaps " such things are ;" 
one honest man I have great hopes from that 
way : but who, except a romance writer, 
would think on a love that could promise 
for life, in spite of distance, absence, chance, 
and change ; and that, too, with slender 
hopes of fruition ? For my own part, I can 
say to myself in both requisitions, " Thou 
art the man !" I dare, in cool resolve I dare, 
declare myself that friend, and that lover. 
If womankind is capable of such things, 
Clarinda is. I trust that she is ; and feel I 
shall be miserable if she be not. There is 
not one virtue which gives worth, nor one 
sentiment which does honour to the sex, that 
she does not possess, superiorly to any woman 
1 ever saw : her exalted mind, aided a little, 
perhaps, by her situation, is, I thhik, capable 
of that nobly-romantic love-enthusiasm. 

May I see you on Wednesday evening, my 
dear angel ? The next \^'^ednesday again 
will, I conjecture, be a hated day to us both. 
I tremble for censorious remark, for your 
sake ; but in extraordinary cases, may not 
»!sual and useful precaution be a little dis- 
pensed with ? Three evenings, three swift- 
winged evenings, with pinions of down, are 
all the past ; 1 dare not calculate the future. 

1 shall call at Miss 's to morrow evening : 

twill be a farewell call. 

I have written out my last sheet of paper, 
10 I am reduced to my last half-sheet. 



What 9 strange mysterious faculty is that 
thing called imagination ! 'We have no 
ideas almost at all of another world ; but I 
have often amused myself with visionary 
schemes of what happiness might be enjoyed 
by small alterations — alterations that we 
can fully enter into, in this present state of 
existence. For instance, suppose you and T, 
just as we are at present ; the same reason- 
ing powers, sentiments, and even desires ; 
the same fond curiosity for knowledge and 
remarking observation in our minds ; and 
imagine our bodies free from pain and the 
necessary supplies for the wants of nature 
at all times, and easily within our reach : 
imagine further, that we were set free from 
the laws of gravitation, which bind us to 
this globe, and could at pleasure fly, without 
inconvenience, through all the yet uncon- 
jectured bounds of creation, what a life of 
bliss would we lead, in our mutual pursuit 
of virtue and knowledge, and our mutual 
enjoyment of friendship and love ! 

i see you laughing at my fairy fancies, and 
calling me a voluptuous Mahometan ; but I 
am certain I would be a happy creature, 
beyond any thing we call bliss here below; 
nay, it would be a paradise congenial to you 
too. Don't you see us, hand in hand, or 
rather, my arm about your lovely waist, 
making our remarks on Sirins, the nearest 
of the fixed stars ; or surveying a comet, 
flaming innoxious by us, as we just now 
would mark the passing pomp of a tra- 
velling monarch ; or in the shady bower of 
Mercury or Venus, dedicating the hour to 
love, in mutual converse, relying honour, and 
revelling endearment, whilst the most exalted 
strains of poesy and harmony would be the 
ready, spontaneous language of our souls ! 
Devotion is the favourite employment of 
your heart; so itis of mhie : what incentives 
then to, and powers for, reverence, gratitude, 
faith, and hope, in all the fervours of adora- 
tion and praise to that Being, whose un- 
searchable wisdom, power and goodness, so 
pervaded, so inspired, every sense and 
feeling ! — By this time, I dare say, you will 
be blessing the neglect of the maid that 
leaves me destitute of paper ! 

Sylvandeb 



NO. xc. (CO) 
TO THE SAJIE. 



Tuesday Night, 1788. 

I AM delighted, charming Clarinda, with 
your honest enthusiasm for religion. Those 



TO CLARINDA. 



3J7 



cf either sex, but particularly the female, 
who are lukewarm in that most important of 
all things, " O my soul, come not thou into 
their secrets!" — I feel myself deeply inter- 
ested in your good opinion, and will lay 
before you the outhues of my belief. He 
who is our Author and Preserver, and will 
one day be our Judge, must be (not for his 
sake in the way of duty, but from the native 
impulse of our hearts,) the object of our 
reverential awe and grateful adoration : He 
is Almighty and all-bounteous, we are weak 
and dependent ; hence prayer and every 

other sort of devotion. " He is not willing 

that any should perish, but that all should 
come to everlasting life;" consequently, it 
must be in every one's power to embrace liis 
olTer of "everlasting life;" otherwise he 
could not, in justice, condemn those who 
did not. A mind pervaded, actuated, and 
governed by purity, truth and charity, 
though it does not merit heaven, yet is an 
ausolutely necessary pre-requisite, without 
which heaven can neither be obtained nor 
enjoyed ; and, by divine promise, such a 
mind shall never fail of attaining "ever- 
lasting life;" hence the impure, the deceiv- 
ing, and the uncharitable exclude themselves 
from eternal bliss, by their unfitness for 
enjoying it. The Supreme Being has put 
the immediate administration of all this, for 
wise and good ends known to himself, into 
the hands of Jesus Christ, a great personage, 
whose relation to him we cannot compre- 
hend, but whose relation to us is a guide 
and Saviour ; and who, except for our own 
obstinacy and misconduct, will bring us all, 
through various ways, and by various means, 
to bliss at last. 

These are my tenets, my lovely friend; 
and which, I think, cannot be well disputed. 
iiy creed is pretty nearly expressed in the 
last clause of Jamie Dean's grace, an honest 
weaver in Ayrshire : " Lord, grant that we 
may lead a guid life ! for a guid life maks a 
guid end, at least it helps weel ! " 

1 am flattered by the entertainment you 
tell me you have found in my packet. You 
see me as I have been, you know me as I am, 
and may guess at what I am likely to be. I 
too may say, " Talk not of love," &c., for 
indeed he has " plunged me deep in woe I " 
Not that I ever saw a woman who pleased 
unexceptionably, as my Clarinda elegantly 
Bays, " in the companion, the friend, and the 
mistress." One indeed I could except — One, 
before passion threw its mists over my 
discernment, I knew the first of women ! 
Her name is indelibly written in my heart's 
core — but 1 dare not look in on it — a degree 



of agony would be the consequence. Oh I 
thou perfidous, cruel, mischief-making demon, 
who presidest over that frantic passion — 
thou mayest, thou dost poison my peace, 
but thou shalt not taint my honour — I 
would not, for a single moment, give am 
asylum to the most distant imagination that 
would shadow the faintest outline of a 
selfish gratification, at the expense of her 
whose happiness is twisted with the threads 

of my existence. May she be as happy 

as she deserves 1 And if my tenderest, 
faithfulest friendship can add to her bliss, 1 
shall, at least, have one solid mine of enjoy- 
ment in my bosom I Don't guess at these 
ravings ! 

I watched at our front window to-day, 
but was disappointed. It has been a day of 
disappointments. I am just risen from a 
two hours' bout after supper, with silly or 
sordid souls, who could relish nothing in 

common with me but the port. One 

'Tis now "witching time of night;" and 
whatever is out of joint in the foregoing 
scrawl, impute it to enchantments and spells ; 
for I can't look over it, but will seal it up 
directly, as I don't care for to-morrow's 
criticisms on it. 

You are by this time fast asleep, Clarinda ; 
may good angels attend and guard you 
as constantly and faitlifuUy as my good 
wishes do 1 

" Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep. 
Shot forth peculiar graces." 

John Milton, I wish thy soul better rest 
than I expect on ray pillow to-night 1 O for 
a little of the cart-horse part of human 
nature ! Good night, my dearest Clarinda ! 

SVLVA.NDER. 



NO. XCI. 

TO THE SAME. 

Tuesday Noon, January llth, 178S. 

I AM certain I saw you, Clarinda; but you 
don't look to the proper story for a poet's 
lodging— 

" Where speculation's roosted near the sky." 

I could almost have thrown myself over 
for very vexation. Why did'nt you look 
higher? It has spoiled my peace for this 
day. To be so near my charming Clarinda ; 
to miss her look when it was searching for • 
me — I am sure the soul is capable of disease, 
for mine has convulsed itself into an iutlaui- 
raatoTV fever. 



31)8 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BUKNS. 



"You have converted me, Clarinda. I 
shall love that name while I live : there is 
heavenly music in it. Booth and Amelia I 
know well. (61) Your sentiments on that 
subject, as they are on every sul)ject, are 
just and noble. " To be feelingly alive to 
kindness and to unkmdness," is a charming 
female character. 

What I said in my la<t letter, the powers 
of fuddling sociality only know for me. By 
yours, I understand my good star has been 
partly in my horizon, when I got wild in my 
reveries. Had that evil planet, which has 
almost all my life shed its baneful rays on 
my devoted head, been, as usxial, in my 
zenith, I had certainly blabbed something 
that would have pointed out to you the dear 
object of my tenderest friendship, and, in 
spite of me, something more. Had that 
fatal information escaped me, and it was 
merely cliance, or kind stars, that it did not, 
I had been undone ! You would never have 
written me, except perhaps once more ! O, 
I could curse circumstances, and the coarse 
tie of human laws, which keep fast what 
common sense would loose, and which bars 
that happiness itself cannot give — happiness 
which otherwise Love and Honour would 
warrant ! But hold— I shall make no more 
" hair breadth 'scapes." 

My friendship, Clarinda, is a life-rent 
business. My likings are both strong and 
eternal. I told you I had but one male 
friend: I have but two female. I should 
have a third, but she is surrounded by the 
blandishments of flattery and courtship 
* * * I register in my heart's core — * * * *. 

Miss N can tell how divine she is. She 

is worthy of a place in the same bosom with 
my Clarinda. That is the liighest compli- 
ment I can pay her. 

Farewell, Clarinda ! Remember 

Sylvandek 



NO. XCII. 

TO THE SAME. 

Saturday Morning, January I9lh, 1783. 

Your thoughts on religion, Clarinda, 
shall be welcome. You may perhaps distrust 
me, when I say 'tis also my favourite topic ; 
but mine is the rehgion of the bosom. I 
hate the very idea of a controversial divinity ; 
as I tirmly believe that every honest upright 
man, of whatever sect, will be accepted of 
the Deity. If your verses, as you seem to 
Imit, contain censure, except you want an 



occasion to break with me, don't send them, 
I have a little infirmity in my disposition, 
that where I fondly love, or highly esteem, 
I cannot bear reproach. 

"Reverence thyself " is a sacred maxim, 
and I wish to cherish it. I think 1 told you 
Lord Boliiigbroke's saying to Swift : — 
" Adieu, dear Swift, with all thy faults I love 
thee entirely; make an effort to love me 
with all mine." A glorious sentiment, and 
without which there can be no friendship ! 
I do highly, very highly esteem you indeed, 
Clarinda — you merit it all ! Perhaps, too — 
I scorn dissimulation! — I could fond^y love 
you : judge then, what a maddening sting 
your reproach would be. "Oil have sins 
to Heaven, but none to you !" — With what 
pleasure would I meet you to-day, but I 
cannot walk to meet the fly. . I hope to be 
able to see you on foot about the middle of 
next week. 

I am interrupted — perhaps you are not 
sorry fur it, you will tell me— but I won't 
anticipate blame. O, Clarinda! did you 
know how dear to me is your look of kind- 
uess, your smile of approbation ! you would 
not, either iu prose or verse, risk a censo- 
rious remark. 

" Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow. 
That tends to make one worthy man my 
foe!" 

Sylvander. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Edinbunjh, January 2\st, 1788. 

After six weeks' confinement I am be- 
ginning to walk across the room. They 
have been six horrible weeks ; anguish and 
low spirits made me unfit to read, write, or 
think. 

1 have a hundred times wished that one 
could resign life as an officer resigns a com- 
mission : for I would not take in any poor, 
ignorant wretch, by selling out. Lately I 
was a sixpenny private, and, God knows, a 
miserable soldier enough ; now I march to 
the campaign, a starving cadet — a little more 
conspicuously wretched. 

I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do 
want bravery for the warfare of life, 1 could 
wish, like some other soldiers, to have as 
much fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or 
conceal my cowardice. 

As soon as I can bear the journey, which 



TO CLARINDA 



S09 



will be, I suppose, about tbe middle of i.exc 
week, I leave Edinburgh ; and soon after I 
shall pay my grateful duty at Dunlop-1 louse. 
R. B. 



NO. XCIV 

TO CLA.RINDA. 

Tuesday Morning, January 20fh, 1788. 

I CANNOT go out to-day, my dearest Cla- 
rindii, without sending you half a line, by 
way of a sm-ofFering ; but. believe me, 'twas 
the sill of Ignorance. Could you think that 
I intended to hurt you by any thing I said 
yesternight? Nature has been too kind to 
you for your happiness, your delicacy, your 
sensibility. — O why should such glorious 
qualifications be the fruitful source of woe I 
You have "murdered sleep" to me last night. 
I went to bed, impressed with an idea that 
you were unhappy: and every time I closed 
my eyes, busy Fancy painted you in such 
scenes of romantic misery that I would 
almost be persuaded you were not well this 
morning. 

" If I unwittingly have offeuded. 

Impute it not." 

"But while we live, 

But one short hour, perhaps, between us two 
Let there be peace." 

If Mary is not gone by tne time this 
reaches you, give her my best compliments. 
She is a charming girl, and highly worthy of 
the noblest love. 

I send you a poem to read, till I call on 
you this night, which will be about nine. I 
wish I could procure some potent spell, some 
fairy charm that would protect injury, or 
restore to rest that bosom-chord, " trem- 
blingly alice all o'er," on which hangs your 
peace of mind. I thought, vainly, I fear, 
thought that the devotion of love — love 
strong as even you can feel— love guarded, 
invulnerably guarded, by all the purity of 
virtue, and all the pride of honour; 1 thought 
such a love would make you happy — will I 
be mistaken ? I can no more for hurry * 



NO. xcv. 

TO THE SA^IE. 

Sunday Morning, February Zrd, 1788. 

I HAVE just been before the throne of my 

God, Clarinda ; according to my association 



of ideas, my sentiments of love and friend- 
ship, I next devote myself to you. Yesterday 
niglit I was happy — happiness " that t!ie 
world cannot give." — I kindle at the recol- 
lection ; bnt it is a flame where innocence 
looks smiling on, and honour stands by a 
sacred guard. — Your heart, your fondest 
wishes, your dearest thoughts, these are 
yours to bestow : your person is unapproach- 
able by the laws of your country ; and lie 
loves not as I do who would make you mise- 
rable. 

You are an angel, Clarinda ; you are 
surely no mortal that " the earth owns." — 
To kiss your hand, to live on your smile, is 
to me far more exquisite bliss that the dear- 
est favours that the fairest of the sex, your- 
self excepted, can bestow. 

Sunday Evening. 

YoH are the constant companion of my 
thoughts. How wretched is the condition 
of one who is haunted with conscious guilt, 
and trembling under the idea of dreaded 
vengeance I and what a placid calm, what a 
charming secret enjoyment it gives, to bosom 
the kind feelings of friendship, and the fond 
throes of love ! Out upon the tempest of 
anger, the acrimonious gall of fretful impa- 
tience, the sullen frost of louring resentment, 
or the corroding poison of withered envy ! 
They eat up the immortal part of man ! If 
they spent their fury only on the unfortunate 
objects of them, it would be something in their 
favour : but these miserable passions, like 
traitor Iscariot, betray their lord and master. 

Thou Almighty Author of peace, and 
goodness, and love! do thou give me the 
social heart that kindly tastes of every man's 
cup ! — Is it a draught of joy ? — warm and 
open my heart to share it with cordial, unen- 
v^uig rejoicing ! Is it the bitter potion of 
sorrow ? — meit my heart with sincerely sym- 
pathetic woe I Above all, do thou give me 
the manly mind that resolutely exemplifies, 
in life and manners, those sentimiaits which 
I would wish to be thought to possess! 
The friend of my soul— there, may I never 
deviate from the firmest fidelity and most 
active kindness ! Clarinda, the dear object 
of my fondest love; there may the most 
sacred, inviolate honour, the most faithfii 
kindling constancy, ever watch and animate 
my every thought and imagination ! 

Did you ever meet with the following 
lines spoken of Rehgion, your darling topic? 

" 'Tis tliis, my friend, that streaks our morn- 
ing bright ! 
'Tis this that gilds the horrors of our night ; 



310 



pr>'>vrc:r>OTJ'^^-S^V OV TIURNS. 



.V'heii wealth forsakes us, and « lieu Ineiids 

are few, [pursue ; 

When friends are faithless, or when foes 

M'is this that wards the blow, or stills the 

smart, 
Disarm-' aiHirtion, or repels its dart : 
Within the breast bids purest rapture rise, 
Eids smiling Conscience spread her cloud- 
less skies." 

I met with these verses very early in life, 
and was so delijrhted with them that I have 
them by me, copied at school. 

Good night and sound rest, my dearest 
Clarinda ! Svlvander. 



NO. xcvi. 
TO THE SAME. 



I WAS on the way, my Love, to meet you, 
(I never do things by halves) when I got 
your card. M goes out of town to- 
morrow morning to see a brother of his who 
is newly arrived from . I am deter- 
mined that he and I shall call on you to- 
gether ; so, look you, lest I should never see 
to-morrow, we will call on you to-night ! 

and you may put off tea till about 

seven; at which time, in the Galloway phrase, 
' an the beast be to the fore, an the branks 
bide liale,'expect the humblest of your humble 
servants, and his dearest friend. We propose 
staying only half an hour, 'for oughiwe ken.' 
I could suffer the lash of misery eleven 
months in the year, were the twelfth to be 
composed of hours like yesternight. You 
are tiie soul of my enjoyment : all else is of 
the stuff and stocks of stones. 

Sylvander. 



NO. XCVIl. 

• TO THE SAME. 
Thursday Morning, February 7th, 1783. 
"Unlavish Wisdom never works in vain." 

I HAVE been tasking my reason, Clarinda, 
why a woman who for native genius, poig- 
nant wit, strength of mind, generous sin- 
cerity of soul, and the sweetest female 
tenderness, is without a peer, and whose 
personal charms have few, very, very few 
parallels among her sex ; why, or how she 
tliould full to the blessed lot of a poor 
harum scarum poet, whom Fortune had 
kept for her particular use, to wreak her 



temper on whenever she was in ill-humour. 
One time I conjectured that, as Fortune is 
the most capricious jade ever known, she 
I may have taken, not a fit of remorse, but a 
paroxysm of whim, to raise the poor devil 
out of the mire, where he had so often and 
so conveniently ser\ed her as a stepping 
stone, and given him the most glorious 
boon she ever had in her gift merely 
for the maggot's sake, to see how 
this fool head and his fool heart will 
bear it. At other times I was vain enough 
to think that Nature, who has a great deal 
to say with Fortune, had given the coquet- 
tish goddess some such hint as, " Here is a 
paragon of female excellence, whose equal, 
in all my former compositions, I never was 
lucky enough to hit on, and despair of ever 
doing so again ; you have cast her rather in 
the shades of life ; there is a certain poet of 
my making; among your frolics it would 
not be amiss to attach him to this master- 
piece of my hand, to give her that immortality 
among mankind which no woman of any 
age ever more deserved, and which few 
rhymsters of tills age are better able to 
confer." 

Evening, 9 o'clock. 
I AM here, absolutely unfit to finish my 
letter — pretty hearty after a bowl, which has 
been constantly plied since dinner till this 
moment. 1 have been with Mr. Schetki, 
the musician, and he has set it (62) finely. 

1 have no distinct ideas of anything, 

but that I have drunk your health twice 
to-night, and that you are all my soul 
holds dear, in this world. 

Sylvandee. 



NO. XCVIIl. 

TO THE SAME. 

Saturday Morning, February 9th, 1788. 

There is no time, my Clarinda, when 
the conscious thrilling chords of Love and 
Friendship give such delitfht as in the pen- 
sive hours of what our favourite, Thomson, 
calls "Philosophic Melancholy." The sportive 
insects who bask in the sunshine of prospe- 
rity ; or the worms that luxuriant crawl 
amid their ample wealth of earth^they need 
no Clarinda : they would despise Sylvander 
— if they durst. The family of Misfortune, 
a numerous group of brothers and sisters! 
they need a resting-place to their souls ; 
unnoticed, often condemned by tUe world ; 



TO CLARTNDV. 



311 



in some deeree, perhaps, condemned by 
Hkemselves, they feel the full enjoyment of 
ardent love, delicate tender endearments, 
mutual esteem, and mutual reliance. 

In tliis light I have often admired reliirion. 
In proportion as we are wrung with grief, or 
distracted with anxiety, the ideas of a com- 
passionate Deity, an Ahnighty Protector, are 
doubly dear. 
"'Tis (his, my Friend, that streaks our 

morning bright ; 
'Tis this that gilds the horrors of our 

night." 
I have been this morning taking a peep 
through, as Young finely says, " the dark 
postern of time long elaps'd ; " and, you 
will easily guess, 'twas a rueful prospect. 
What a tissue of thoughtlessness, weakness, 
and folly ! ]\Iy life reminded me of a 
ruined temple ; what strength, what pro- 
portion iu some parts ! what unsightly gaps, 
what prostrate ruins in others ! 1 kneeled 
down before the Father of mercies, and said, 
" Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and 
in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be 

called thy son 1 " I rose, eased and 

strengthened. I despise the superstition 
of a fanatic, but I love the religion of a 
man. " The future," said I to myself, " is 
still before me ; " there let me 

' On reason build resolve. 



That column of true majesty in man ! " 

" I have difficulties many to encounter," 
said I ; " but they are not absolutely in- 
superable : and where is firmness of mind 
slie« n but in exertion ? mere declamation is 
bombastic rant." Besides, wherever I am, 
or in wliatever situation I may be — 

' 'Tis nought to me: 

Since God is ever present, ever felt, 
In the void waste as iu the city full ; 
And where He vital breathes, there must be 
joy 1 " 

Saturday Night — half-nfter Ten. 

What luxury of bliss I was enjoying this 
time yester-night ! My ever-dearest Cla- 
rinda, you have stolen away my soul : but 
you have refined, you have exalted it : you 
have given it a stronger sense of virtue, and 
a stronger relish for piety. — C'larinda, first 
of your sex, if ever I am the veriest wretch 
on*earth to forget you ; if ever your lovely 
image is effaced from my soul, 

" May I be lost, no eye to weep my end ; 
And find no earth that's base enough to 
bury me • " 



What trifling silliness is the childish fond- 
ness of the every-day children of the world ! 
'tis the unmeaning toying of the yovniglinga 
of the fields and forests : but where Senti- 
ment and Fancy unite their sweets , where 
Taste and Delicacy refine ; where Wit adds 
the flavour, and Goodness gives strength 
and spirit to all, what a delicious draught is 
the hour of tender endearment ! — Heauty 
and Grace, in the arms of Truth and Honour, 
in all the luxury of mutual love. 

C'larinda, have you ever seen the picture 
realized ? Not in all its very richest colour- 
ing. 

Last night, Clarinda, but for one slight 
shade, was the glorious picture. 

Innocence 

Look'd gaily smiling on ; while rosy Pleasure 
Hid young Desire amid her flowery wreath, 
And pour'd her cup luxuriant ; mantUng 

high. 
The sparkling heavenly vintage. Love and 

Bliss! 

Clarinda, when a poet and poetess of 
Nature's making — two of Nature's noblest 
productions I — when they drink together of 
the same cup of Love and Bliss, attempt 
not, ye coarser stuflTs of human nature, 
profanely to measure enjoyment ye never 
can know! — Good night, my dear Clarinda! 
Sylvander. 



2-^ 



VO. XCIX. 

TO THE SAME. 

February, 1788. 

My ever De-^rest Clarinda. — I 
make a numerous dinner party wait me 
while I read yours, and write this. Do not 
require that I should cease to love you, to 
adore you in my soul — 'tis to me impossible ; 
— your peace and happiness are to me dearer 
than ray soul ; name the terms on which 
you wish to see me, to correspond with 
me, and you have them ; I must love, 
pine, mourn, and adore in secret — this 
you must not deny me ; you will ever be 
to me — 

" Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes. 
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my 
heart !" 
I have not patience to read the puritanic 
scrawl. — Vile sophistry! — Ye heavens! thou 
God of nature! thou Redeemer of mankind! 
ye look down with appruviii^ eyys ou a 



312 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



passion inspired by the purest flame, and 
guarded by truth, delicacy, and honour ; but 
the half-inchsoul of auuiifeehng, cold-blooded 
pitiful, presbyterian bigot cannot forgive any 
thing above his dungeon bosom and foggy 
head. 

Farewell; I'll be with you to-morrow 
evening ; and be at rest in your mind ;— I 
will be yours in the way you think most to 
your happiness ! I dare not proceed — I 
iove, and will love you, and will with joyous 
confidence approach the throne of the Al- 
mighty Judge of men, with your dear idea, 
and will despise the scum of sentiment, and 
the mist of sophistry. 

Sylvander. 



short to make that lasting impression ou 
your heart I could wish. 

Sylvander. 



NO. CI. 



TO THE SAME. 

Tuesday Evening, Feb. I2th, 1783. 
That you have faults, my Clarinda, I 
never doubted ; but I knew not where they 
existed, and Saturday night made me more 
in the dark thai ever. O Clarinda, why will 
you wound my soul, by hinting that last 
night must have lessened my opinion of 
you ? True, 1 was " behind the scenes with 
you ;" but what did I see ? A bosom glow- 
ing with honour and benevolence : a mind 
ennobled by genius, informed and refined by 
education and reflection, and exalted by na- 
tive religion, genuine as in the climes of 
heaven ; a heart formed for all the glorious 
meltings of friendship, love and pity. These 
I saw. — I saw the noblest immortal soul 
creation ever showed me. 

I looked long, my dear Clarinda, for your 
letter ; and am vexed that you are complain- 
ing. I have not caught you so far wrong as 
in your idea, that the commerce you have 
with one friend hurts you, if you cannot tell 
every tittle of it to another. Why have you 
80 injurious a suspicion of a good God, 
Clarinda, as to think that Friendship and 
Love, on the sacred inviolate principles of 
Truth, Honour, and Religion, can be any 
thing else than au object of His divine 
approbation ? 

I have mentioned, in some of my former 
scrawls, Saturday evening next. Do allow 
me to wait on you that evening. Oh, my 
angel ! how soon must we part ! and when 
can we meet again ! I looked forward on the 
horrid interval with tearful eyes! "What 
have 1 lost by not knowing you sooner I 1 
fear, I foar my acquaintance with you is too 



TO THE SAME. 

"I AM distressed for thee, my brother 
Jonathan!" I have suffered, Clarinda, from 
your letter. My soul was in arms at the 
sad perusal; I dreaded that I had acted 
wrong. If I have robbed you of a friend, 
God forgive me! But, Clarinda, be com- 
forted : let us raise the tone of our feelings 
a little higher and bolder. A fellow-creature 
who leaves us, who spurns us without just 
cause, though once our bosom friend — up 
with a little honest pride— let him go! How 
shall I comfort you, who am the cause of the 
injury ? Can I wish that I had never seen 
you?" that we had never met ? No! I never 
will. But have I thrown you friendless?— 
tliere is almost distraction in that thought. 

Father of mercies! against Thee often 
have I sinned ; through Thy grace I will en- 
deavour to do so no more ! She who, Thou 
knowest, is dearer to me than myself, pour 
Thou the balm of peace into her past wounds, 
and hedge her about with Thy peculiar care, 
all her future days and nights ! Strengtlien 
her tender noble mind, firmly to sutfer, and 
magnanimously to bear ! Make me worthy 
of that friendship she honours me witli. 
]\Iay my attachment to her be pure as devo- 
tion, and lasting as immortal life! O 
Almighty Goodness, hear me! Be to her at 
all times, particularly in the hour of distress 
or trial, a Friend and Comforter, a Guide 
and Guard. 

" How are Thy servants blest, O Lord, 
How sure is their defence ! 
Eternal wisdom is their guide, 
Their help. Omnipotence !" 

Forgive me, Clarinda, the injury I have 
done you! To-night I shall be with you; 
as indeed I shall be ill at ease till 1 see you. 

SVLVANUEI;. 



NO. CI I. 

TO THE SAME. 

Two o'clock. 

I JUST now received your first letter of 
yesterday, by the careless negligence of tlie 
penny-post. Clarinda, matters are grown 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 



313 



very serious with ns ; then seriously hear 
me, and hear me, Heaven : — I met you, my 
dear * * ♦ *, by far the first of woman- 
kind, at least to me ; I esteemed, I loved 
you at first sight, the longer 1 am acquainted 
with you, the more innate amiableness and 
worth I discover in you. — You have suffered 
a loss, I confess, for my sake : but if the 
firmest, steadiest, warmest friendship,— if 
every endeavour to be worthy of your friend- 
ship, — if a love, strong as tiie ties of nature, 
and holy as the duties of religion — if all 
these can make anything like a compensation 
for the evil I have occasioned you, if they 
be worth your acceptance, or can in the least 
add to your enjoyments — so help Sylvander, 
ye Powers above, in his hour of need, as he 
freely gives these all to Clarinda ! 

I esteem you, I love you as a friend ; I 
admire you, I love you as a woman, beyond 
any one in all the circle of creation ; I know 
I shall continue to esteem you, to love you, 
to pray for you, nay, to pray for myself for 
your sake. 

Expect me at eight. — And believe me to 
be ever, my dearest Madam, yours most 
entirely, Sylvander. 



NO. CIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Edinhunjli, February \2th, 1783. 

Some things in your late letters hurt me : 
not that you say them, but that you mistake 
me. Religion, my honoured Madam, has 
not only been all my hfe my chief dependence, 
but my dearest enjoyment. I have, indeed,' 
been the luckless victim of wayward follies ; 
but, alas ! I have ever been " more fool tlian 
knave." A mathematician without religion 
is a probable character ; an irrehgious poet 
is a monster. K. B. 



NO. CIV. 

TO CLARINDA. 

February lith, 1783. 

When matters, my love, are desperate, 
we must put on a desperate face : — 

" On reason build resolve, 

That column of true majesty in man." 



Or, as the same author finely says in 
another place — 

" Let thy soul spring up, 

And lay strong hold for help on him that 
made thee." 

I am yours, Clarinda, for life. Never be 
discouraged at all this. Look forward ; in a 
few weeks I shall be somewhere or other out 
of the possibility of seeing you : till then, I 
shall write you often, but visit you seldom. 
Your fame, your welfare, your happine.ss, are 
dearer to me than any gratification whatever. 
Be comforted, my love ! the present moment 
is the worst : the lenient hand of Time is 
daily and hourly either lightening the burden, 
or making us insensible to the weight. 

None of these friends, I mean Mr. 

and the other gentleman, can hurt your 
worldly support, and for their friendship, in 
a little time you will learn to be easj', and, 
by and bye, to be happy without it. A 
decent means of livelihood in the world, an 
approving God, a peaceful conscience, and 
one 'firm, trusty friend — can anybody that 
has these be said to be unhappy ? These 
are yours. 

To-morrow evening I shall be with you 
about eight ; probably for the last time till I 
return to Edinburgh. In the meantime, 
should any of these two unlucky friends 
question you respecting me, whether I am 
the man, I do not think they are entitled to 
any information. As to their jealousy and 
spying, I despise them. — Adieu, my dearest 
Madam! Sylvander. 



NO. CV. 

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esa 

OF riNTRY. 

February, 1738. 

Sir. — Mlien I had the honour of being 
introduced to you at Athole House, I did not 
think so soon of asking a favour of you. 
When liCar, in Shakespeare, asked old Kent 
why he wished to be in his service, he 
answers: — "Because you have that in your 
face which I would fain call master." For 
some such reason. Sir, do I now solicit your 
patronage. You know, I dare say, of an 
application I lately made to your Board to 
he admitted an otticer of Excise. I have, 
according to form, been examined by a super 



?14 



COBRESPOXDENCE OF BURNS. 



visor, and to-day I gave in his certificate, with 
a request for an order for instructions. In 
this affair, if I succeed, I am afraid I shall 
but too much need a patronising friend. 
Propriety of conduct as a man, and fidelity 
a id attention as an officer, I dare engage for ; 
but with any thing like business, except 
manual labour, I am totally unacquainted. 

I had intended to have closed my late ap- 
pearance on the stage of life in the character 
of a country farmer ; but after discharging 
some lilial and fraternal claims, I find I could 
only fight for existence in that miserable 
manner, which I have lived to see throw a 
venerable parent into the jaws of a jail, — 
whence death, the poor man's last and often 
best friend, rescued him. 

I know. Sir, that to need your goodness, 
is to have a claim on it ; may I, therefore, 
beg your patronage to forward me in this 
affair, till I be appointed to a division — 
where, by the help of rigid economy, I will 
try to support that independence so dear to 
my soul, but which has been too often so 
distant from my situation. R. Ji. 



TO THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. (63) 
Edinburgh, February, \Ath, 1788. 

Reverend and Deak Sir — I have 
been a cripple now near three months, though 
I am getting vastly better, and have been 
very much hurried besides, or else I would 
have wrote you sooner. I must beg your 
pardi n for the epistle you sent me appearing 
in the iNIagazine. I had given a copy or two 
to some of ray intimate friends, but did not 
know of the printing of it till the publication 
of the IMagazine. However, as it does great 
honour to us both, you will forgive it. 

The second volume of the Songs I men- 
tioned to you in my last is published to-d.iy. 
I send you a copy, which I beg you will 
accept as a mark of the veneration I have 
long had, and shall ever have, for your cha- 
racter, and of the claim I make to your con- 
tinued acquaintance. Your songs appear in 
the third volume, with your name in the 
index ; as I assure you, Sir, I have heard 
your " Tullochgorum," particularly among 
our west-country folks, given to many differ- 
ent names, and most commonly to the im- 
mortal author of " The Minstrel," who, 
indeed, never wrote anything superior to 
" Gie a sang, Montgomery cried." Your 
brother has promised me your verses to the 



IMarquis of Huntly's ree>, which certainly 
deserve a place in the collection. My kind 
host, ilr. Cruikshank, of the high-School 
here, and said to be one of the best Latins 
in this age, begs me to make you his grate- 
ful acknowledgments for the entertainment 
he has got in a Latin publication of yours 
that I borrowed for him from your acquaint- 
ance and much respected friend in this place, 
the Reverend Dr. Webster. (64) Mr. Cruik- 
shank maintains that you write the best 
Latin since Buchanan. I leave Edinburgh 
to-morrow, but shall return in three weeks. 
Your song you mentioned in your last, to 
the tune of " Dumbarton Drums," and the 
other, which you say was done by a hroiher 
in trade of mine, a ploughman, I shall thank 
you for a copy of each. I am ever, reverend 
Sir, with the most respectful esteem and 
sincere veneration, yours, R. B. 



NO. CVII. 

TO RICHARD BROWN. 

Edinburgh, February \Uh, 1783. 

My Dear Friend — I received yours 
with the greatest pleasure. I shall arrive at 
Glasgow on Monday evening ; and beg, if 
possible, you will meet me on Tuesday. I 
shall wait you Tuesday all day. I shall be 
found at Davies's Black Bull inn. I am 
hurried, as if hunted by fifty devils, else I 
should go to Greenock ; but if you cannot 
possibly come, write me, if possible, to 
Glasgow, on Monday; or direct to me at 
Mossgiel by Mauchline ; and name a day 
and place in Ayrshire, within a fortnight 
from this date, where I may meet you. I 
only stay a fortnight in .Ayrshire, and return 
to Edinburgh. I am ever, my dearest friend, 
yours, R. B. 



TO MRS. ROSE, OP KILRAVOCK. 

Edinburgh, February \7th, 1783. 

j Madam — You are much indebted to 
I some indispensable business I have had on 
ray hands, otherwise my gratitude threatened 
such a return for your obliging favour as 
would have tired your patience. It but 
poorly expresses my feelings to say, that I 
am sensible of your kmdness : it may be 
said of hearts such as yours is. and sucli, 1 



r 



TO MISS CHALMERS. 



S15 



hope, mine is, much more justly thau 
Addison applies it : — 

Some souls by instinct to each other turn. 

There was something in my reception at 
Kilravock so different from the cold, obse- 
quious, dancinjr-school bow of politeness, 
that it almost got into my head that friend- 
ship had occupied her ground without the 
intermediate march of acquaintance. I wish 
I could transcribe, or rather transfuse into 
language, the glow of my heart when I read 
your letter. My ready fancy, with colours 
more mellow than life itself, painted the 
beautifully wild scenery of Kilravock ; the 
venerable grandeur of the castle ; the spread- 
ing woods ; the winding river, gladly leaving 
his unsightly, heathy source, and lingering 
with apparent delight as he passes the fairy 
walk at the bottom of the garden ; your late 
distressful anxieties ; your present enjoy- 
ments , your dear little angjl, the pride of 
your hopes ; my aged friend, venerable in 
worth and years, whose loyalty and other 
virtues will strongly entitle her to the 
support of the Almighty Spirit here, and his 
peculiar favour in a happier state of existence. 
You cannot imagine, Madam, how much 
such feelings delight me ; they are my 
dearest proofs of my own immortality. 
Should I never revisit the north, as probably 
I never will, nor again see your hospitable 
mansion, were I, some twenty years hence, 
to see your little fellow's name making a 
proper ti^ure in a newspaper paragraph, my 
heari vi>nld bound with pleasure. 

I am assisting a friend in a collection of 
Scottish songs, set to their proper tunes ; 
every air worth preserving is to be included ; 
among others I have given "Morag," and 
some few Highland airs which pleased me 
most, a dress which will be more generally 
known, though far, far inferior in real merit. 
As a small mark of my grateful esteem, I 
beg leave to present you with a copy of the 
work, as far as it is printed ; the Man of 
Feeling, that lirst of men, has promised to 
transmit it by the first opportunity. 

I beg to be remembered most respectfully 
to my venerable friend, and to your little 
Highland chieftain. When you see the 
" two fair spirits of the hill," at Kil- 
drummie (63), tell them that I have done 
myself the honour of setting myself down as 
one of their admirers for at least twenty 
years to come, consequently they must look 
upon rac as an acquaintance for the same 
period; but, as the .Vpostle Paul says, "this 
I ask of grace, not of debt." I have the 
honour to be, JIadam, &c., R. B. 

2S 



TO CLARINDA. 

Glasgow, Monday Evening, 9 o'clock, 
Feb. illh, 178'S. 

The attraction of love, I find, is in an in- 
verse proportion to the attraction of the 
Newtonian philosophy. In the system of 
Sir Isaac, the nearer objects are to one another 
the stronger is the attractive force ; in my 
system, every mile-stone that marked my 
progress from Clarinda, awakened a keener 
pang of attachment to her. 

How do you feel, my love ? Is your heart 
ill at ease? I fear it. — God forbid that 
these persecutors should harass that peace 
which is more precious to me than my own. 
Be assured I shall ever think of you, muse 
on you, and, in my moments of devotion, 
pray for you. The hour that you are not in 
all my thoughts — "be that hour darkness ! 
let the shadows of death cover it ! let it not 
be numbered in the hours of the day !" 

— " When I forget the darling theme. 

Be my tongue mute! my fancy paint no 

more ! 
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat !" 

I have just met with my old friend, the 
ship captain ; guess my pleasure ; — to meet 
you could alone have given me more. My 
brother William, too, tlie young saddler, has 
come to Glasgow to meet me ; and here are 
we three spending the evening. 

I arrived here too late to write by post ; 
but I'll wrap half a dozen sheets of blank 
paper together, and send it by the fly, under 
the name of a parcel. You shall hear from 
me next post town. I would write you a 
long letter, but for the present circumstance 
of my friend. 

Adieu, my Clarinda ! I am just going to 
propose your health by way of grace-driak. 
Sylvan DEB. 



TO MISS CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, February, 1783. 

To-morrow, my dear Madam, I leave 
Edinburgh. I have altered all my plans 
of future life. A farm that I could live 
in, I could not find ; and, indeed, after the 
necessary support my brother and the rest 
of the family required, I could not venture 
on farming in that style suitable to mj 



316 



CORRESPONDENCE OP BURNS. 



feelings. You will condemn me for tiie 
next step I have taken. I liave entered into 
tlie Excise. I stay in the west about three 
weeks, and then return to Edinburgh for 
six weeks' instructions ; afterwards, for I 
get employ instantly, I go oii il plait a Dieu 
— et mon Roi. I have chosen this, my dear 
fi-iend, after mature deliberation. The cpies- 
tion is not at what door of fortune's palace 
shall we enter in, but what doors does she 
open to us 2 I was not likely to get any 
thing to do. I wanted im hilt, which is a 
dangerous, an unhappy situation. I got this 
without any hanging on, or mortifying soli- 
citation ; it is immediate bread, and though 
poor in comparison of the last eighteen 
months of my existence, 'tis luxury in com- 
parison of all my p: eceding life : besides, the 
commissioners are some of them my acquaint- 
ajices, and all of them my firm friends. 

E.B. 



NO. CXI. 



TO RICHARD BRO\\T^. 

MossrjieJ, February Lith, 1788. 

My Dear Sir — I cannot get the proper 
direction for my friend in Jamaica, but the 
following will do : — To Mr. Jo. Hutchinson, 
at Jo. Brownrigg's, Esq., care of Mr. Benja- 
min Henriquez, merchant. Orange Street, 
Kingston. 1 arrived here, at my brother's, 
only yesterday, after fighting my way 
through Paisley and Kilmarnock against 
those old powerful foes of mine, the devil, 
the world, and the flesh — so terrible in the 
fields of dissipation. I have met with few 
incidents in my life which gave me so much 
pleasure as meeting you in Glasgow. There 
is a time of life beyond which we cannot 
form a tie worth the name of friendship. 
" Oh youth ! enchanting stage, profusely 
blest." Life is a fairy scene : almost all that 
deserves the name of enjoyment or pleasure 
is only a charming delusion ; and in comes 
repining age, in all the gravity of hoary 
wisdom, and wretchedly chases away the 
bewitching phantom. When I think of life, 
I resolve to keep a strict look-out in the 
course of economy, for the sake of worldly 
convenience and independence of mind ; to 
cultivate intimacy with a few of the com- 
panions of youth, that they may be the 
friends of age ; ne\er to refuse my liquorish 
humour a handful of the sweet-meats of 
life, when they come not too dear ; and, for 
futurity — 



Tlie present moment is our aim. 
The next we never saw ! 
How like you ray philosophy ? Give my 
best compliments to Mrs. B., and believe ma 
to be, my dear Sir, yours most truly, 

R. B. (66) 



NO. CXIl. 



TO MISS CHALMERS. 

March, 1788. 

Now for that wayward, unfortunate thing, 
myself. I have broke measures with Creech, 
and last week I wrote him a frosty, keen 
letter. He replied in terms oif chastisement, 
and promised me upon his honour that I 
should have the account on Monday; but 
this is Tuesday, and yet I have not heard a 
word from him. God have mercy on me ! 
a poor damned, incautious, duped, unfortu- 
nate fool ! The sport, the miserable victim 
of rebellious pride, hypochondriac imagina- 
tion, agonising sensibility, and bedlam 
passions ! 

" I wish that I were dead, but I'm no likfe 
to die !" I had lately " a hair-breadth 'scape 
in th' imminent deadly breach " of love too 
Thank my stars, I got oflf heart-whole, 
" more fleyd than hurt." — Interruption. 

I have this moment got a hint ; I fear I 
am something like — undone — but I hope for 
the best. Come, stubborn pride and un- 
shrinking resolution ; accompany me through 
this, to me, miserable world ! You must 
not desert me. Your friendship I think I 
can count on, though I should date my letters 
from a marching regiment. Early in life, 
and all my life, I reckoned on a recruiting 
drum as my forlorn hope. Seriously though, 
life at this moment presents me with but a 
melancholy path: but — my limb will soon be 
sound, and I shall struggle on. R. B. 



TO CLARINDA. 

Cumnock, March 2nd, 1788. 

I HOPE, and am certain, that my generous 
Clarinda will not think my silence, for now 
a long week (67), has been in any degree 
owing to my forgetfulness. I have been 
tossed about through the country ever since 
I wrote you ; and am here, returning from 
Dumfries-shire, at an inn, the post-office of 



TO ROBERT ATXPLTE, ESQ. 



811 



the place, with just so long time as my 
horse eats his corn, to write you. I have 
been hurried with business and dissipation 
almost equal to the insidious decree of the 
Persian monarch's mandate, when he forbade 
asking petition of God or man for forty days. 
Had the venerable prophet been as throng 
as I, he had not broken the decree, at least 
not thrice a-day. 

I am thinking my farming scheme will yet 
hold. A worthy intelligent farmer, my 
father's friend and my own, has been with 
me on the spot : he thinks the bargain prac- 
ticable. I am myself, on a more serious 
review of the lands, much better pleased 
with them. I won't mention this in writing 

to any body but you and . Don't 

accuse me of being fickle : I have the two 
plans of life before me, and I wish to adopt 
the one most likely to procure me indepen- 
dence. I shall be in Edinburgh next week. 
I long to see you : your image is omnipre- 
sent to me ; nay, I am convinced I would 
soon idolatrize it most seriously ; so much 
do absence and memory nuprove the medium 
through which one sees the much-loved 
object. To-night, at the sacred hour of 
eight, I expect to meet you — at the Throne 
of Grace. I hope, as I go home to night, to 
find a letter from you at the post-office in 
Mauchline. I have just once seen that dear 
hand since I left Edinburgh — a letter indeed 
which much affected me. Tell me, first of 
womankind ! will my warmest attachment, 
my sincerest friendship, my correspondence, 
will they be any compensation for the sacri- 
fices you make for my sake ! If they will, 
they are yours. If 1 settle on the farm I 
propose, I am just a day and a half's ride 
from Edinburgh. We will meet — don't you 
say, " perhaps too often !" 

Farewell, my fair, my charming Poetess ! 
Way all good things ever attend you ! I am 
ever, my dearest Madam, yours, 

Sylvander. 



NO. cxiv. 

TO MR. WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK. 

Mauchline, March 3rd, 1788. 

JIy Dear Sir — Apologies for not 
writing are frequently like apologies for not 
singing — the apology better than the song. 
I have fought my way severely through the 
savage hospitality of this coiuitry, to 
send every guest drunk to bed if they 
con. 



1 executed your commission in Glasgow 
and I hope the cocoa came safe. 'Twas the 
same price and the very same kind as 
your former parcel, fur the gentleman 
recollected your buying there perfectly 
well. 

I should return my thanks for your 

hospitality (I leave a blank for the epithet, 
as 1 know none can do it justice) to a poor 
wayfaring bard, who was spent and almost 
overpowered, fighting with prosaic wicked- 
nesses in high places ; but I am afraid lest 
you should burn the letter whenever you 
come" to the passage, so I pass over it in 
silence. I am just returned from visiting 
Mr. Miller's farm. The friend whom I told 
you I would take with me (68) was highly 
pleased with the farm; and as he is, without 
exception, the most intelligent farmer in the 
country, he has staggered me a good deal. 
I have the two plans of life before me ; I 
I shall balance them to the best of my 
judgment, and fix on the most eligible. I 
have written Mr. Miller, and shall wait on 
him when I come to town, which shall be the 
beginning or middle of next week : I would 
be in sooner, but my unlucky knee is rather 
worse, and 1 fear for some time will scarcely 
stand the fatigue of my Excise instructions. 
I only mention these ideas to you ; and, 
indeed, except I\Ir. Ainslie, whom I intend 
WTiting to to-morrow, I will not write at all 
to Edinburgh till I return to it. I would 
send my compliments to jMr. Nicol, but he 
would be hurt if he knew I wrote to any 
body and not to him ; so I shall only beg 
my best, kindest, kindest compliments to 
my worthy hostess, and the sweet little rose- 
bud. 

So soon as I am settled in the routine of 
life, either as an Excise-officer, or as a 
farmer, I propose myself great pleasure from 
a regular correspondence with the only man 
almost I ever saw who joined the most 
attentive prudence with the warmest gene- 
rosity. 

I am much interested for that best of 
men, Mr. Wood ; I hope he is in better 
health and spirits than when I saw him last. 
I am ever, my dearest friend, your obliged 
humble servant, R. li. 



NO. cxv. 
TO ROBERT AINSLIE, Eso. 

Mauchline, March Srd, 1788. 

My Dear Friend — I am just returned 
from Mr. Miller's farm. My old friend 



318 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



whom I took with me was highly pleased 
with the bargain, and advised me to accept 
of it. He is the most intelligent, sensible 
fanner in the country, and his advice has 
staggered me a good deal. I have the two 
plans before me: I shall endeavour to balance 
them to the best of my judgment, and fix 
on the most eligible. On the whole, if I 
find Mr. Miller in the pame favourable dis- 
position as when I saw him last, 1 shall in 
all probability turn farmer. 

1 have been through sore tribulation, and 
under much buifetting of the wicked one, 
since I came to this country. Jean I fbund 
banished, forlorn, destitute and friendless ; 
1 have reconciled her to her fate, and I have 
reconciled her to her mother. 

I shall be in Edinburgh the middle of next 
week. My farming ideas I shall keep j)ri- 
vate till I see. I got a letter from Clarinda 
j'esterday, and she tells me she has got no 
letter of mine but one. Tell her that I 
wrote to her from Glasgow, from Kilmar- 
nock, from Mauchline, and yesterday from 
Cumnock as I returned from Dumfries. In- 
deed, she is the only person in Edinburgh I 
have written to till this day. How are your 
soul and body putting up ? — a Uttle like man 
and wife, I suppose. R. B. 



KO. CXVI. 

TO CLARINDA. 



Mossgiel, March 1th, 178S. 

Clarinda, I have been so stung with 
your reproach for unkinduess— a sin so unlike 
me, a sin I detest more than a breach of the 
whole Decalogue, fifth, sixth, seventh, and 
ninth articles excepted — that I believe I shall 
not rest in my grave about it, if I die before 
I see you. You have often allowed me the 
head to judge, and the heart to feel, the 
influence of female excellence. Was it not 
blasplieiny, then, against your own charms, 
and agauist my feelings, to suppose that a 
short fortnight could abate my passion ? 
You, my Love, may have your cares and 
anxieties to disturb you, but they are the 
usual occurrences of life ; your future views 
are fixed, and your mind in a settled routine. 
Could not you, my ever dearest Madam, 
make a little allowance for a man, after long 
absence, paying a short visit to a country 
full of friends, relations and early intimates? 
Cannot you guess, my Clarinda, what 
thoughts, what cares, what anxious fore- 
bodings, hopes and fears, must crowd the 



breast of the man of keen sensibility, when 
no less i3 on the tapis than his aim, his em- 
ployment, his very existence, through future 
life? 

Now that, not my apology, but my defence, 
is made, I feel my soul respire more easily. 
I know you will go along with me in my 
justification — would to Heaven you could 
in my adoption too ! I mean an adoption 
beneath the stars — an adoption where I 
might revel in the immediate beams of 

" Her, the bright sun of all her sex." 

I would not have you, my dear Madam, 

so much hurt at Miss 's coldness. 'Tis 

placing yourself below her, an honour she 
by no means deserves. We ought, when we 
wish to be economists in happiness — we 
ought, in the first place, to fix the standard 
of our own character ; and when, on full ex- 
amination, we know where we stand, and 
how much ground we occupy, let us contend 
for it as property : and those who seem to 
doubt, or deny us what is justly ours, let us 
either pity their prejudices, or despise their 
judgment. I know, my dear, you will say 
this is self conceit ; but I call it self-know- 
ledge. The one is the overweening opinioa 
of a fool, who fancies himself to be what 
he wishes himself to be thought; the other 
is the honest justice that a man of sense, 
who has thoroughly examined the subject, 
owes to himself. Without this standard, 
this column in our own mind, we are per- 
petually at the mercy of the petulance, 
the mistakes, the prejudices, nay, the very 
weakness and wickedness of our fellow- 
creatures. 

I urge this, my dear, both to confirm my- 
self in the doctrine which, I assure you, I 
sometimes need; and because I know that 
this causes you often much disquiet. — To 

return to Miss : she is most certainly 

a worthy soul, and equalled by very, very 
few, in goodness of heart. But can she 
boast more goodness of heart than Clarinda? 
Not even prejudice will dare to say so. 
For penetration and discernment, Clarinda 

sees far beyond her : to wit. Miss dare 

make no pretence ; to Clarinda's wit, scarcely 
any of her sex dare make pretence. Per- 
sonal charms, it would be ridiculous to run 
the parallel. And for conduct in life. Miss 

was never called out, either much 

to do or to sutfer ; Clarinda has been both ; 
and has performed her part where Miss 
— — would have sunk at the bare idea. 

Away, then, with these disquietudes ! Ixt 
us pray with the honest weaver of Kilbar- 
chau — " Lord, send us a guid conceit o' 



TO MR. MUIR. 



819 



onrsel ! " Or, in the words of the anUl 
sansr, 

"Who does me disdain, I can scorn them 
aKain, 
And I'll never mind any such foes." 

There is an error iu the commerce of in- 
timacy with those who are perpetually taking 
what they, in the way of exchange, have not 
in equivalent to give us ; and, what is still 
worse, we have no idea of the value of our 
goods. Happy is our lot, indeed, when we 
meet with an honest merchant, who is 
qualified to deal with us on our own terras ; 
but that is a rarity. With almost every 
body we must pocket our pearls, less or 
more, and learn, in the old Scotch phrase — 
" To gie sic like as we get." For this rea- 
son, one should try to erect a kind of bank 
or store-house in one's own mind ; or as the 
Psalmist says, " We should commune with 
our own hearts, and be still." This is ex- 
actly ♦ * * • » 
[rest iva7itin(j.'] 



NO. CXVII. 

TO RICHARD BROWN. 

MauchUne, March 1th, 1788. 

I HAVE been out of the country, my dear 
friend, and have not had an opportunity of 
writing till now, when I am afraid you will 
be gone out of the country too. I have 
been looking at farms, and, after all, perhaps 
I may settle in the character of a farmer. I 
have got so vicious a bent to idleness, and 
have ever been so little a man of business, 
that it will take no ordinary effort to bring 
my mind properly into the routine; but you 
will say a "great effort is worthy of you." 
I say so myself ; and butter up my vanity 
with all the stimulating comphments I can 
think of Men of grave, geometrical minds, — 
the sons of "which was to be demonstrated," 
— may cry up reason as much as they please ; 
but I have always found an honest passion, 
or native instinct, the truest auxiliary in the 
warfare of this world. Reason almost always 
comes to me like an unlucky wife to a poor 
devil of a husband, just in sufficient time to 
add her reproaches to his other grievances. 

I am gratified with your kind inquiries 
after Jean; as, after all, I may say with 
Othello— 

"Excellent wretchV 

Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee!" 

£ go for Edinburgh on Monday. 

Yours. R. B. 



NO. cxvm. 

TO MR MUIR. 

Mossgiel, March 7th, 17S8. 

Dear Sir^I have particularly changed 
my ideas, since I saw you. I took 
old Glenconner with me to Mr. Miller's 
farm, and he was so pleased with it, that I 
have wrote an offer to Mr. Miller, which if 
he accepts, I shall sit down a plain farmer, 
the happiest of lives when a man can live by 
it. In this case, I shall not stay in Edin- 
burgh above a week. I set out on Monday, 
and would have come by Kilmarnock, but 
there are several small sums owing me for 
my first edition about Galston and Newmills, 
and I shall set off so early as to dispatch my 
business and reach Glasgow by night. When 
I return, I shall devote a forenoon or two to 
make some kind of acknowledgment for all 
the kindness I owe your friendship. Now 
that I hope to settle with some credit and 
comfort at home, there was not any friend- 
ship or friendly correspondence that promised 
me more pleasure than yours ; I hope I will 
not be disappointed. I trust the spring will 
renew your shattered frame, and make your 
friends happy. You and I have often agreed 
that life is no great blessing on the whole. 
The close of life, indeed, to a reasoning 
age, is 

Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
AVas roll'd together, or had tried his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound. 

But an honest man has nothing to fear. 
If we lie down in the grave, the whole man 
a piece of broken machinery, to moalder 
with the clods of the valley, be it so ; at 
least there is an end of pain, care, woes and 
wants : if that part of us called mind does 
survive the apparent destruction of the man 
— away with old-wife prejudices and tales ! 
Every age and every nation has had a 
different set of stories ; and as the many 
are always weak of consequence, they have 
often, perhaps always, been deceived : a man 
conscious of having acted an honest part 
among his fellow-creatures — even granting 
that he may have been the sport at times of 
passions and instincts — he goes to a great 
unknown Being, who could have no other 
end in giving him existence but to make 
him happy, who gave him those passions 
and instincts, and well knows their force. 

These, my worthy friend, are my iileas ; 
and I know they are not far different from 
yours. It becomes a man of sense to think 
for liimself, particularly iu a case where all 



320 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



men are equally interested, and where, in- 
deed, all men are equally in the dark. 

Adieu, my dear Sir; God send us a cheerful 
meetiufijl 11. B. 



NO. cxix. (69) 
TO CLARINDA. 

I OWN myself guilty, Clarinda; I should 
have written you last week ; but when you 
recollect, my dearest Jladani, that your's of 
this night's post is only the third I have got 
from you, and that this is the fifth or sixth 
I have sent to you, you will not reproach me, 
with a good grace, for unkindness. I have 
always some kind of idea, not to sit down 
to write a letter, except I have time and 
possession of my faculties so as to do some 
justice to my letter; which at present is 
rarely my situation. For instance, yester- 
day I dined at a friend's at some distance ; 
the savage hospitality of this country spent 
me the most part of the night over the 
nauseous potion in the bowl: this day — 
sick — headache — low spirited — miseiable 
— lasting, except for a drauglit of water or 
small beer : now eight o'clock at night — 
only able to crawl ten minutes' walk into 
Mauchline to wait the post, in the pleasure- 
able hope of hearing from the mistress of 
my soul. 

But, a truce to all this ! When I sit 
down to write to you, all is harmony and 
peace. An hundred times a-day do I 
figure you, before your taper, your book or 
work laid aside, as I get within the room. 
How happy have I been ! and how little of 
that scantling portion of time, called the 
life of man, is sacred to happiness ! I 
could moralize to-night like a death's 
head : — 

"O what is life, that thoughtless wish of 

all! 
A drop of honey in a draught of gall." 

Nothing astonishes me more, when a little 
sickness clogs the wheels of life, than the 
thoughtless career we run in the hour of 
healtli. " None saith, where is God, my 
Maker, that giveth songs in the night ; who 
teaciieth us more knowledge than the beasts 
of the field, and more understanding than 
the fowls of the air." 

Give me, my Maker, to remember thee ! 
Give me to act up to the dignity of my 
nature ! Give me to feel " another's woe ; " 
and continue with me that dear-lov'd friend 
that feels with mine I 



The dignified and dignifying conscious, 
ness of an honest man, and the well- 
grounded trust in approving Heaven, are 
two most substantial sources of happiness. 

• ••»*« 

Sylvander. 



TO MISS 



My Dear Countrywoman — I am so 
impatient to show you that I am once more 
at peace with you, that I send you the book 
I mentioned directly, rather than wait the 
uncertain time of my seeing you. I am 
afraid I have mislaid or lost Collins's Poems, 
which I promised to Miss Irvin. If I can 
find them, I will forward them by you ; if 
not, you must apologise for me. 

I know you will laugh at it when I tell 
you that your piano and you together have 
played the deuce somehow about my heart. 
My breast has been widowed these many 
months, and I thought myself proof against 
the fascinating witchcraft ; but I am afraid 
you will " feelingly convince me what I am." 
I say, I am afraid, because I am not sure 
what is the matter with me. I ha\e one 
miserable bad symptom ; when you whisper, 
or look kindly to another, it gives me a 
draught of damnation. I have a kind of 
wayward wish to be with you ten minutes 
by yourself, though what I would say. 
Heaven above knows, for I am sure I know 
not. I have no formed design in all this, 
but just, in the nakedness of my heart, write 
you down a mere matter-of-fact story. You 
may perhaps give yourself airs of distance 
on this, and that will completely cure me ; 
but I wish you would not — just let us meet, 
if you please, in the old . beaten way of 
friendship. 

I will not subscribe myself your humble 
servant, for that is a phrase, I think, at least 
fifty miles off from the heart ; but I will 
conclude with sincerely wishing that the 
Great Protector of innocence may shield you 
from the barbed dart of calumny, and hand 
you by the covert snare of deceit. R. B. 



NO. CXXI. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, March I4th, 1788. 

T KNOW, my ever dear friend, that you will 
be pleased with the news when I tell you, * 



TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 



521 



• • ♦ I have at last taken a lease of a farm. 
Yesternight I completed a bargain with Mr. 
Miller of Dalswintoa for the farm of Ellis- 
land, on the banks of the Nith, between 
five and six miles above Dumfries. I begin 
at Whitsunday to build a house, drive lime, 
&c. ; and Heaven be my help ! for it will 
take a strong effort to bring my mind into 
the routine of business. I have discharged 
all the army of my former pursuits, fancies, 
and pleasures— a motley host ! and have 
literally and strictly retained only the ideas 
of a few friends which I have incorporated 
into a life-guard. I trust in Dr. Johnson's 
observation, " Where much is attempted, 
something is done." Firmness, both in 
suffering and exertion, is a character I woiUd 
wish to be thought to possess ; and have 
always despised the whining yelp of com- 
plaint, and the cowardly, feeble resolve. 

Poor Miss K. is ailing a good deal this 
winter, and begged me to remember her to 
you the first time I WTote to you. Surely 
woman, amiable woman, is often made in 
vaiu. Too delicately formed for the rougher 
pursuits of ambition ; too noble for the dirt 
of avarice, and even too gentle for the rage 
of pleasure ; formed indeed for, and highly 
susceptible of, enjoyment and rapture ; but 
that enjoyment, alas ! almost wholly at the 
mercy of the caprice, malevolence, stupidity, 
or wickedness of an animal at all times com- 
paratively unfeeling, and often brutal. 

R. B, 



of all ; but God help us, who are wits or 
witlings by profession, if we stand not for 
fame there, we sink unsupported ! 

I am highly flattered by the news you tell 
me of Coila. I may say to the fair painter who 
does me so much honour, as Dr. Beattie 
says to Ross, the poot of his muse Scota, 
from which, by the bye, I took the idea of 
Coila ('tis a poem of Beattie's in the Scot- 
tish dialect, which perhaps you have never 
seen) : — 

Ye shak your head, but o' my fegs, 
Ye've set auld Scota on her legs : 
Lang had she lien wi' betfs and flegs, 

Bumbaz'd and dizzie. 
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, 

Wae's me, poor hizzie. 

E. B. 



NO. CXXIII. 



NO. CXXII. 

TO ]\ms. DUNLOP. 

Mossfjiel, March I7th, 1783. 

Mabam — The last paragraph in yours of 
the 30th February affected me most, so I 
shall begin my answer where you ended 
your letter. That I am often a siimer, with 
any little wit I have, I do confess : but I 
have taxed my recollection to no purpose, 
to find out when it was employed against 
you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm a great 
deal worse than I do the devil, at least as 
Milton describes him ; and though I may be 
rascally enough to be sometimes guilty of it 
myself, I cannot endure it in others. You, 
my honoured friend, who cannot appear iu 
any light but you are sure of being respect- 
able — you can afford to pass by an occasion 
to dis))lay your wit, because you may de- 
pend for fame on your sense; or, if you 
choose to be silent, you know you can rely 
on^he gratitude of many, and the esteem 



TO RICHARD BROWN. 

Glasc/ow, March 26lh, 1788. 

I AM monstrously to blame, my dear Sir, 
in not writing to you, and sending you the 
Directory. I have been getting my tack 
extended, as I have taken a farm, and I have 
been racking shop accounts with Mr. 
Creech ; both of which, together with watch- 
ing, fatigue, and a load of care almost too 
heavy for my shoulders, have in some de- 
gree actually fevered me. 1 really forgot 
the Directory yesterday, which vexed me; 
but I was convulsed with rage a great part 
of the day. 1 have to thank you for the 
ingenious, friendly and elegant epistle from 
your friend Mr. Crawford. I shall certainly 
write to him, but not now. This is merely 
a card to you, as I am posting to Dumfries- 
shire, where many perplexing arrangements 
await me. I am vexed about the Directory ; 
but, my dear Sir, forgive me : these eight 
days 1 have been positively crazed. My 
compliments to Mrs. B. I shall write to 
you at Grenada. I am everj m/ dearest 
friend, youra. R. B 



NO. cxxir. 
TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN, 

Mauchline, March 31st, 1738. 

Yesterday, my dear Sir, as I was riding 
through a tract of melancholy, joyless muirs, 
between Galloway and Ayrshire, it being 



322 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



Sunday, I turned my thoughts to psalms, 
and hymns, and spiritual songs ; and your 
f.ivourite air, " Captain O'Kean," coming at 
length into my head, I tried these words to 
it. (70) You will see that the first part of 
the tune must be repeated. 

I am tolerably pleased with these verses, 
but as I have only a sketch of the tune, I 
leave it with you to try if they suit the 
measure of the music. 

I am so harassed with care and anxiety, 
about this farming project of mine, tliat my 
muse has degenerated into the veriest prose- 
wench that ever picked cinders, or followed 
a tinker. When I am fairly got into the 
routine of business, I shall trouble you with 
a longer epistle ; perhaps with some queries 
respecting farming : at present, the world 
sets such a load on my mind that it has 
effaced almost every trace of the poet in 
me. 

My very best compliments and good 
wishes to Mrs. Cleghorn. E. B. 



NO. CXXV. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

MauchUne, April 1th, 1788. 

I AM indebted to you and Jliss Nimrao 
for letting me know Miss Kennedy. Strange! 
how apt we are to indulge prejudices in our 
judgments of one another ! Even I, who 
pique my skill in marking characters — be- 
cause I am too proud of my character £is a 
man to be dazzled in my judgment for 
glaring wealth, and too proud of my situa- 
tion as a poor man to be biassed against 
squalid poverty — I was unacquainted with 
Miss K.'s very uncommon worth. 

I am going on a good deal progressive in 
mon grand but, the «ober science of life. I 
have lately made some sacrifices, for which, 
were I viva, voce with you to paint the situa- 
tion and recount the circumstances (71), you 
would applaud me. R. B. 



NO. cxxvi. 
TO MR. WILLAM DUNBAR, 

EDINBURGH. 

Maucldine, April 7th, 1783. 

I HAVE not delayed so long to write you, 
my much respected friend, because I thought I 



no farther of my promise. I have long since 
given up that kind of formal correspondence, 
where one sits down irksomely to write a 
letter, because we think we are in duty 
bound so to do. 

I have been roving over the country, as 
the farm I have taken is forty miles from this 
place, hiring servants and preparing matters ; 
but most of all, I am earnestly busy to bring 
about a revolution in my own mind. As, 
till within these eighteen months, I never 
was the wealtliy master of ten guineas, my 
knowledge of business is to learn ; add to 
this, my late scenes of idleness and dissipa- 
tion have enervated my mind to an alarming 
degree. Skill in the sober science of life is 
my most serious and hourly study. I 
have dropped all conversation and all reading 
(prose reading) but what tends in some way 
or other to my serious aim. Except one 
worthy young fellow, I have not one single 
correspondent in Edinburgh. You have 
indeed kindly made me an otfer of that kind. 
The world of wits, and gens comme il faut 
which I lately left, and with whom I never 
again will intimately mix — from that port. 
Sir, I expect your Gazette : what les beaux 
esprits are saying, what tliey are doing, and 
what they are singing. Any sober intelli- 
gence from my sequestered walks of life; 
any droll original ; any passing remark, 
important forsooth, because it is mine ; any 
little poetic effort, however embroyth ; these, 
my dear Sir, are all you have to expect from 
me. When I talk of poetic efforts, I must 
have it always understood, that I appeal 
from your wit and taste to your friendship 
and good nature. The first would be my 
favourite tribunal, where I defied censure; 
but the last, where I declined justice. 

I have scarcely made a single distich since 
I saw you. When I meet with an old Scots 
air that has any facetious idea in its name, I 
have a peculiar pleasure in following out 
that idea for a verse or two. 

I trust that this will find you in better 
health than I did last time I called for you. 
A few lines from you, directed to me at 
Mauchline, were it but to let me know how 
you are, will set my mind a srood deal at 
peace. Now, never shun the idea of writing 
me, because perhaps you may be out of 
humour or spirits. I could give you a hun- 
dred good consequences attending a dull 
letter ; one, for example, and the remaining 
ninety-nine some other time — it will always 
serve to keep in countenance, my raucli re- 
spected Sir, your obliged frieud and humble 
servant, 

R. B. 



TO MR. JAMES SMITH. 



323 



correspondence, like the opening of a twenty, 
four gun battery ! 

There is no understanding a man properly, 
without knowing something of his |)reviou3 
ideas — that is to say, if the man has any 
ideas ; for I know many who, in the animal- 
muster, pass for men, that are the scanty 
masters of only one idea on any given sub- 
jcct, and by far the greatest part of your 
acquaintances and mine can barely boast of 
ideas, 1'25 — 1"5 — V75 (or some such frac- 
tional matter) ; so to let you a little into the 
secrets of my pericranium, there is, you 
mast know, a certain clean-limbed, handsome, 
bewitching young huzzy of your acquaint- 
ance, to whom I have lately and privately 
given a matrimonial title to my corpus. 

Bode a robe and wear it. 
Bode a pock and bear it. 



NO, CXXVII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchime, April 2Sth, 1783. 

Madam — Your powers of reprehension 
must be great indeed, as I assure you they 
made my heart ache with penitential pangs, 
even though I was really not guilty. As I 
commence farmer at Whitsunday, you will 
easily guess I must be pretty busy; but that 
is not all. As I got the offer of the Excise 
business without solicitation, and as it costs 
me only six months' attendance for instruc- 
tions, to entitle me to a commission — which 
commission lies by me, and at any future 
period, on my simple petition, can be resumed; 
I thought fiveand thirty pounds a-year was 
no bad dernier resort for a poor poet, if for- 
tune in her jade tricks should kick him down 

from the little eminence to which she haa | ^^yg ^^^ ^^^^^ ol^ g^ots adage ! I hate to 
lately helped him up. ■ .... 

For this reason, I am at present attending 
these instructions, to have them completed 
before Whitsunday. Still, Madam, I prepared 
with the sincerest pleasure to meet you at 
the Mount, and came to my brother's on 
Saturday night, to set out on Sunday ; but 
for some nights preceding I had slept in an 
apartment, where the force of the winds and 
rains was only mitigated by being sifted 
through numberless apertures in the windows, 
walls, &c. In consequence I was on Sunday, 
Monday, and part of Tuesday, unable to stir 
out of bed, with all the miserable effects of a 
violent cold. 

You see. Madam, the truth of the French 
maxim le vrai n'est pas toujours le vraisem- 
blabte. Your last was so full of expostula- 
tion, and was something so like the language 
of an offended friend, that I began to 
tremble for a correspondence, which 1 had 
with grateful pleasure set down as one of the 
greatest enjoyments of my future life. 

Your books have delighted me; Virgil, 
Dryden and Tasso, were all equally strangers 
to me; but of this more at large in my 
next. R. B. 



NO. CXXVII I. 

TO MR JAMES SMITU. 

AVON PRINTFIELD, LINLITHGOW. 

Mauchline, April 2Sth, 1788. 

Beware: of your Strasburgh, my good 
Sir! Look on this as the opening of a 



presage ill-luck; and as my girl has been 
doubly kinder to me than even the best of 
women usually are to their partners of our 
sex, in similar circumstances, I reckon on 
twelve times a brace of children against I 
celebrate my twelfth wedding day : these 
twenty-four will give me twenty-four gossip- 
pings, twenty-four christenings (I mean one 
equal to two), and I hope, by the blessing of 
the God of my fathers, to make them twenty- 
four dutiful children to their parents, twenty- 
four useful members of society, and twenty- 
four approved servants of their God ! * * » 

" Light's heartsome," quo' the wife when 
she was stealing sheep. You see what a 
lamp I have hung up to lighten your paths, 
when you are idle enough to explore the 
combinations and relations of my ideas. 
'Tis now as plain as a pike-staff why a 
twenty-four gun battery was a metaphor I 
could readily employ. 

Now for business. I intend to present 
Mrs. Burns with a printed shawl, an article 
of which I dare say you have variety : 'tis 
my first present to her since I have irrevo- 
cably called her mine, and I have a kin<l of 
whimsical wish to get her the first .'^aid 
present from an old and much valued frien<l 
of hers and mine, a trusty Trojan, on whose 
friendship I coimt myself possessed of as a 
life-rent lease. 

Look on this letter as a " beginning of 
sorrows ;" I will write you till your eye» 
ache reading nonsense. 

Mrs. Bums ('tis only her private desig- 
nation) begs her best compliments to yoiL 
R. B. 



29 



324 



CORRESPONDEXCE OF BURNS. 



NO. CXXIX. 

TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. 
Mauchline, May 3rd, 1788. 

Sir — I enclose you one or two more of 
my bagatelles. If the fervent wishes of 
honest gratitude have any influence with 
that great, unknown Being who frames the 
chain of causes and events, prosperity and 
happiness will attend your visit to the con- 
tinent, and return you safe to your native 
shore. 

Wherever I am, allow me. Sir, to claim it 
as my privilege to acquaint you with my 
progress in my trade of rhymes ; as I am 
sure I could say it with truth, that, next to 
my little fame, and the having it in my power 
to make life more comfortable to those whom 
nature has made dear to me, I shall ever 
regard your countenance, your patronage, 
your friendly good offices, as the most valued 
consequence of my late success in life. 

R. B. 



NO. CXXX. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

MaucIiUne, May ith, 1788. 

!Madam — Dryden's Virgil has delighted 
me. I do not know whether the critics wjll 
agree with me, but the Georgics are to me 
by far the best of Virgil. It is indeed a 
species of writing entirely new to me, and 
has tilled my head with a thousand fancies 
of emulation : but, alas ! when I read the 
Georgics, and then survey my own powers, 
'ti.s like the idea of a Shetland pony, drawn 
up by the side of a thorough-bred hunter, to 
start for the plate. I own I am disappointed 
in the jEneid. Faultless correctness may 
please, and does highly please the lettered 
critic : but to that awful character I have 
not the most distant pretensions. I do not 
know whether I do not hazard my preten- 
sions to be a critic of any kind, when I say 
that I think Virgil, in many instances, a 
servile copier of Homer. If I had the 
Odyssey by me, I could parallel many pas- 
sages where Virgil has evidently copied, but 
by no means improved. Homer. Nor can I 
think there is anything of this owing to the 
translators ; for, from everything I have seen 
of Dryden, I think him, in genius and fluency 
of language. Pope's master. I have not 
perused Tasso enough to form an opinion — 
in some future letter you shall have my ideas 



of him; though I am conscious my criti- 
cisms must be very inaccurate and imperfect, 
as there I have ever felt and lamented my 
waut of learning most. R. B. 



NO. CXXXI. 



TO ]\IR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Mauchline, May 26th, 1788. 

My dear Friend — I am two kind letters 
in your debt ; but I have been from home, 
and horridly busy, buying and preparing for 
my farming business, over and above the 
plague of my Excise instructions, which this 
week will finish. 

As I flatter my wishes that I foresee many 
future years' correspondence between us, 
'tis foolish to talk of excusing dull epistles ; 
a dull letter may be a very kind one. I have 
the pleasure to tell you that I have been 
extremely fortunate in all my buyings and 
bargainings hitherto — JMrs. Burns not ex- 
cepted; which title I now avow to the 
world. I am truly pleased with this last 
affair ; it has indeed added to my anxieties 
for futurity, but it has given a stability to 
my mind and resolutions unknown before ; 
and the poor girl has the most sacred en- 
thusiasm of attachment to me, and has not 
a wish but to gratify my every idea of her 
deportment. I am interrupted. — Farewell 1 
my dear Sir, R. B. 



NO. CXXXII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

May 27th. 1788. 

]\Iadam — I have been torturing my phi- 
losophy to no purpose, to account for that 
kind partiality of yours, which has followed 
me, in my return to the shade of life, with 
assiduous benevolence. Often did I regret, 
in the fleeting hours of my late will-o'-wisp 
appearance, that " here I had no continuing 
city ;" and, but for the consolation of a few 
solid guineas, could almost lament the time 
that a momentary acquaintance with wealth 
and splendour put me so much out of con- 
ceit with the sworn companions of my road 
through life — insignificance and poverty. 

There are few circumstances relating to 
the unequal distribution of the good things 
of this life that give me more vexation (I 



TO ^\^RS. DUNLOP. 



S25 



mean in what I see around me) tlian tlie im- 
portance the opulent bestow on their trifling 
family affairs, compared with the very same 
things on the contracted scale of a cottage. 
Last afternoon I had the lionour to spend an 
hour or two at a good woman's fire-side, 
where the planks that composed the floor 
were decorated with a splendid carpet, and 
the gay table sparkled with silver and china. 
Tis now about term-day, and there has been 
a revolution among those creatures, who, 
though in appearance partakers, and equally 
noble partakers, of the same nature with 
Madame, are from time to time — their 
nerves, their sinews, their health, strength, 
wisdom, experience, genius, time, nay a good 
part of their very thoughts— sold for months 
and years, not only to the necessities, the 
conveniences, but the caprices, of the im- 
portant few. We talked of the insignificant 
creatures; nay, notwithstanding their general 
stupidity and rascality, did some of the poor 
devils the honour to commend them. But 
light be the turf upon his breast who 
taught, "Reverence thyself." We looked 
down on the unpolished wretches, their im- 
pertinent wives and clouterly brats, as the 
lordly bull does on the little dirty ant-hill, 
whose puny inhabitants he cruslies in the 
carelessness of his ramble, or tosses in the 
air in the wantonness of his pride. 

R. B. 



KO. CXXXIII. 

TO THE SAME. 

Ellisland, June \Wi, 1783. 

1 Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, 
I My licart, uutravell'd, fondly turns to thee ; 
I Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless 
pain, [chain. 

' And drags, at each remove, a lengthen'd 
\ Goldsmith. 

( This is the second day, my honoured 
friend, that I have been on my farm. A 
solitary inmate of an old, smoky spence ; 
1 far from every object I love, or by wiiom I 
! am beloved; not any acquaintance older 
I than yesterday, except Jenny Geddes, the 
old mare I ride on ; while uncouth cares and 
I novel plans hourly insidt my awkward igno- 
i ranee and bashful inexperience. There is a 
foggy atmosphere native to my soul in tlie 
hour of care, consequently the dreary ob- 
jects seem larger then the life. Extreme 



sensibility, irritated and prejudiced on the 
gloomy side by a series of misfortunes and 
disappointments, at that period of my exist- 
ence when the soul is laying in her cargo 
of ideas for the voyage of life, is, I believe, 
the principal cause of this unhappy frame of 
mind. 

The valiant in himself, what can he suffer ? 
Or what need he regard his shigle woes ? 
&c. 

Your surmise, Madam, is just ; I am in- 
deed a husband. 
« * • • • • 

To jealousy or infidelity I am an equal 
stranger My preservative from the first is 
the most thorough consciousness of her 
sentiments of honour, and her attachment 
to me: my antidote against the last is 
my long and deep-rooted affection for 
her. 

In housewife matters, of aptness to learn 
and activity to execute, she is eminently 
mistress : and during my absence in Niths- 
dale, she is regularly and constantly ap- 
prentice to my mother and sisters in their 
dairy and other rural business. 

The muses must not be offended when I 
tell them, the concerns of my wife and family 
will, in my mind, always take the pas; but I 
assure them their ladyships will ever come 
next in place. 

You are right that a bachelor state would 
have insured me more friends ; but, from a 
cause you will easily guess, conscious peace 
in the enjoyment of my own mind, and 
unmistrusting confidence in approaching 
my God, would seldom have been of the 
number. 

I found a once much-loved and still 
much-loved female, literally and truly cast 
out to the mercy of the naked elements ; but 
I enabled her to purchase a shelter — there is 
no sporting with a fellow-creature's happi- 
ness or misery. 

The most placid good-nature and sweet- 
ness of disposition ; a warm heart, gratefully 
devoted with all its powers to love me ; 
vigorous health and sprightly cheerfulness, 
set off to the best advantage by a more 
than commonly handsome figure ; these, I 
think, in a woman, may make a good wife, 
though she should never liave read a page 
but the Scriptures of the Old and New 
Testament, nor have danced in a brighter 
assembly than a penny pay wedding. 

R. B. 



S'jr. 



CnRRESPOXDENOE OV WTRNS. 



NO. CXXXIV. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Ellisland, June Uth, 1788. 

This is now the thirJ day, my dearest 
Sir, that I have sojourned in these regions ; 
'aud during these three days you have occu- 
pied more of my thoughts than in three 
weeks preceding : in Ayrshire I have several 
variations of friendship's compass, here it 
points invariably to the pole. My farm gives 
me a good many uncouth cares and anxieties, 
but 1 hate the language «<f complaint. Job, 
or some one of his friends, says well — "Why 
should a living man complain ? " 

I have lately been much mortified with 
contemplating an unlucky imperfection in 
the very framing and construction of my 
soul ; namely, a blundering inaccuracy of 
her olfactory organs m hitting the scent of 
craft or design in my fellow-creatures. I do 
not mean any comphment to my ingenuous- 
ness, or to hint that the defect is in con- 
sequence of the unsuspicious simplicity of 
conscious truth and honour : I take it to be, 
in some way or other, an imperfection in the 
mental sight ; or, metaphor apart, some 
modification of dullness. In two or three 
instances lately, I have been most shamefully 
out. 

I have all along, hitherto, in the warfare 
of life, been bred to arms among the light- 
horse — the piquet-guards of fancy — a knid 
of hussars and Highlanders of the brain ; 
but I am firmly resolved to sell out of these 
giddy battallions, who have no ideas of a 
battle but fighting the foe, or of a siege but 
storming the town. Cost what it will, I am 
determined to buy in among the grave 
squadrons of heavy-armed thought, or the 
artillery corps of plodding contrivance. 

\Miat books are you reading, or what is 
the subject of your thoughts, besides the 
great studies of your profession ? You said 
something about religion in your last. 1 
don't exactly remember what it was, as the 
letter is in Ayrshire ; but I thought it not 
only prettily said, but nobly thought. You 
will make a noble fellow if once you were 
married. I make no reservation of your 
being well married : you have so much sense 
and knowledge of human nature, that 
though you may not reahse, perhaps, the 
ideas of romance, yet you will never be ill 
married. 

Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish ', 
situation respecting provision for a family of ■ 
children, I am decidedly of opinion that the ' 
step I have taken is vastly for my happi- ' 



i.ess. (t^) As it is, I !ock to the Excise 
scheme as a certainty of maintenance ; a 
maintenance! — luxury to what either Mrs. 
Burns or I were born to. Adieu I 

R B. 



NO. CXXXV. 

TO THE SAME. 

Mauchline, June 2Zrd, 1788. 

This letter, my dear Sir, is only a busi- 
ness scrap. Mr. Miers, profile painter in 
your town, has executed a profile of Dr. 
Blacklock for me ; do me the favour to call 
for it, and sit to him yourself for me, which 
put in the same size as the doctor's. The 
account of both profiles will be fifteen 
shillings, which I have given to James 
Connel, our Mauchline carrier, to pay you 
when you give him the parcel. You must 
not, my friend, refuse to sit. The time is 
short ; when I sat to Mr. Miers, I am sure 
he did not exceed two minutes. I propose 
hanging Lord Glencairn, the doctor, and 
you, in trio over my new chimney-piece that 
is to be. Adieu. R. B. 



NO. cxxxvi. 

TO THE SAME. 
Ellisland, June 30th, 1788. 

My Dear Sir — I just now received your 
brief epistle ; and, to take vengeance on 
your laziness, I have, you see, taken a long 
sheet of writing-paper, and have begun at 
the top of the page, intending to scribble oil 
to the very last corner. 

I am vexed at that affair of the * * *, 
but dare not enlarge on the subject until 
you send me your direction, as I suppose 
that will be altered on your late master and 
friend's death. (73) I am concerned for the 
old fellow's exit, only as I fear it may be to 
your disadvantage in any respect — for an old 
man's dying, except he have been a very 
benevolent character, or in some particular 
situation of life that the welfare of the poor 
or the helpless depended on him, I think it 
an event of the most trifling moment to the 
world. Man is naturally a kind, benevolent 
animal, but he is dropped into such a needy 
situation here in this vexatious world, and 
has such a whore-son, hungry, growling, 
multiplying pack of necessities, appetites, 
passions and desires about him, ready to 
devour him for want of other food, that in 



TO SIR PKTEIJ niLL. 



327 



fact he must lay aside his cares for oUiers 
that he may look properly to himself. You 
have been imposed upon in payins: Mr. 
Miers for the profile of a Mr. H. 1 did not 
mention it in my letter to you, nor did I 
ever give Mr. Jliers any such order. I have 
no objection to lose the money, but I will 
not have any such profile in my possession. 

I desired the carrier to pay you, but as I 
mentioned only fifteen shillinf^s to him, I will 
rather enclose you a guinca-nute. I have it 
not, indeed, to spare here, as I am only a so- 
journer in a strange land in this place ; but 
in a day or trto I return to Mauchliue, and 
there I have the bank-notes through the 
house like salt permits. 

There is a great degree of folly in talking 
unnecessarily of one's private atfairs. I have 
just now been interrupted by one of my new 
neighbours, who has made himself absolutely 
contemptible in my eyes by his silly, garru- 
lous pruriency. I know it has been a fault 
of my own, too ; but from this moment I 
abjure it as I woidd the service of hell ! 
Your poets, spendthrifts, and other fools of 
that kidney, pretend, forsooth, to crack 



full in your own way. I admire the close 
of a letter Lord Bolingbroke writes to Ueau 
Swift : — " Adieu, dear Swift ! with all thy 
faults I love thee entirely ; make an effort to 
love me with all mine!" Humble servant, 
and all that tnmipery, is now such a pros- 
tituted business, that honest friendship, 
in her sincere way, must have recourse 
to her primitive, simple, farewell ! 

R. B. 



NO. CXXXVII. 

TO MR. PETER HILL. 

My Dear Hill— I shall say nothing 
to your mad present. (74) You have so 
long and often been of important service to 
me, and I suppose you mean to go on con- 
ferring obligations until I shall not be able 
to lift up my face before you. In the mean- 
time, as Sir Roger de Coverley, hecause it 
happened to be a cold day in which he made 



his will, ordered his servants great-coats for 
their jokes on prudence ; but 'tis a squalid , mourning, so, because I have been this 
vagabond glorying in his rags. Still, im- [ week plagued with an indigestion, I have 



prudence respecting money matters is much 
more pardonable than imprudence respecting 
character. 1 have no objection to prefer 
prodigality to avarice, in some few instances; 
but I appeal to your observation if you have 
not met, with the same disingenuousness, 
the same hollow-hearted insincerity, and dis- 
integritive depravity of principle, in the 
hackneyed victims of profusion, as in the 
unfeeling children of parsimony. I have 
every possible reverence for the much-talked- 
of world beyond the grave, and I wish that 
which piety believes, arid virtue deserves, 
may be all matter-of-fact. But in things 
belonging to and terminating in this present 
scene of existence, man has serious and 
interesting business on hand. Whether a 
man shall shake hands with welcome in the 
distinguished elevation of respect, or shrink 
from contempt in the abject corner of in- 
significance : whether he shall wanton under 
the tropic of plenty, at least enjoy himself 
in the conif irtable latitudes of ca<y conve- 
nience, or starve in the arctic circle of dreary 
poverty; whether he shall rise in the manly 
consciousness of self-approving mind, or 
sink beneath a galling load of regret and 
remorse — these are alternatives of the last 
moment. 

You see how I preach. You used occa- 
sionally to sermonise too ; I wish you 
vould, in charity, favour me with a sheet 



29^ 



sent you by the carrier a fine old ewe-milk 
cheese. 

Indigestion is the devil ; nay, 'tis the devil 
and all. It besets a man in every one of 
his senses. I lose my appetite at the sight 
of successful knavery, and sicken to loathing 
at the noise and nonsense of self-important 
folly. When the hollow-hearted wretch 
takes me by the hand, the feeling spoils my 
dinner ; the proud man's wine so offends 
ray palate, that it chokes me in the gullet ; 
and the 'pulverised, feathered, pert coxcomb, 
is so disgustful in my nostril, that my sto- 
mach turns. 

If ever you have any of these disagreeable 
sensations, let me prescribe for you patience 
and a bit of my ch ese. I know tliat you 
are no niggard of your good things among 
your friends, and some of them are in much 
need of a slice. There, in my eye, is our 
friend Smellie ; a man positively of the first 
abilities and greatest strength of mind, as 
well as one of the best hearts and keenest 
wits that I ever met with ; when you see 
him — as, alas ! he too is smarting at the 
pinch of distressful circumstances, aggravated 
by the sneer of contumelious greatness — a 
bit of my cheese alone will not cure him, 
but if you add a tankard of brown stout, 
and superadd a inagniim of right Oporto, 
you will see his sorrows vanish like tl«> 
morning mist before the summer sun 



3'2S 



COKKESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



Candlish, the earliest friend, except my 
only brother, that I have on earth, and one 
of the worthiest fellows that ever any man 
called by the name of friend, if a luncheon 
of my cheese would help to rid him of some 
of his superabundant modesty, you would 
do well to fjive it him. 

David (75), with his Courant, comes, too, 
across my recollection, and I beg you will 
help him largely from the said ewe-milk 
cheese, to enable him to digest those be- 
daubing paragraphs with which he is 
eternally larding the lean characters of cer- 
tain great men in a certain {^reat town. I 
grant you the periods are very well 
turned; so, a fresh egg is a very good 
thing, but when thrown at a man in a 
pillory, it does not at all improve his 
figure, not to mention the irreparable loss 
of the egg. 

My facetious friend Dunbar I would wish 
also to be a partaker ; not to digest his 
spleen, for that he laughs off, but to digest 
hhs last night's wine at the last field-day of 
the Crochallan corps. (76j 

Among our common friends I must not 
forget one of the dearest of them — Cun- 
ningham. (77) The brutality, insolence 
and selfishness of a world unworthy of 
having such a fellow as he is in it, 1 know 
sticks in his stomach, and if you can help 
him to anything that will make him a 
little easier on that score, it will be very 
obliging. 

As to honest John Somerville, he is 
Biich a contented, happy man, that I know 
not what can annoy him, except, perhaps, 
he may not have got the better of a parcel 
of modest anecdotes which a certain poet 
gave him one night at supper, the last time 
the said poet was in town. 

Though I have mentioned so many men 
of law, I shall have nothing to do with 
them professionally; — the faculty are beyond 
my prescription. As to their clients, that 
is another thing; God knows, they have 
much to digest ! 

The clergy I pass by; their profundity 
of erudition, and their liberality of senti- 
ment, their total want of pride, and their 
detestation of hypocrisy, are so prover- 
bially notorious, as to place them far, far 
above either my praise or censure. 

I was going to mention a man of worth, 
whom I have the honour to call friend, the 
Laird of Craigdarroch ; but I have spoken 
to the landlord of the King's Arms inn here, 
to have at the next county meeting a large 
ewe-milk cheese table, for the benefit of the 
Dimifries-shire Whigs, to enable them to 



digest the Duke of Queensberry's late politi- 
cal conduct. 

I have just this moment an opportunity 
of a private hand to Edinburgh, as perhapa 
! you would not digest double postage. 

R. B. 



NO. CXXXVIII. 



TO ]MR. GEORGE LOCKHART. 

MERCHANT, GLASGOW. 

Mauchliae, July \2,th, 1788. 

!My Dear Sir — I am just going for 
Nithsdale, else I would certainly have 
transcribed some of my rhyming things 4(br 
you. The Miss Baillies I have seen in 
Edinburgh. " Fair and lovely are thy 
works. Lord God Almighty! Who would 
not praise thee for these thy gifts in thy 
goodness to the sons of men ! " It needed 
not your fine taste to admire them. I 
declare, one day I had the honour of dining 
at ]Mr. Baillie's, I was almost in the pre- 
dicament of the children of Israel, when 
they could not look on ]\Ioses' face for the 
glory that shone in it when he descended 
from Mount Sinai'. 

I did once write a poetic address from the 
Falls of Bruar to his Grace of Athole, when 
I was in the Highlands. When you return 
to Scotland, let me know, and I will send 
such of my pieces as please myself best. 
I return to Mauchline in about ten days. 

My compliments to Mr. Purden. I am 
in truth, but at present, in haste, yours, 
R. B. 



NO. CXXXIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, August 2nd, 1788. 

Honoured Madam — Your kind letter 
welcomed me, yesternight, to Ayrshire. I 
am, indeed, seriously angry with you at the 
quantum of your luckpenny ; but, vexed and 
hurt as I was, I could not help laughing very 
heartily at the noble lord's apology for the 
missed napkin. 

I would write you from Nithsdale, and 
give you my direction there, but 1 have 
scarce an opportunity of calling at a post — 
otfice once in a fortnight. 1 am six miles 
from Dumfries, am scarcely ever in it mysi;lf, 
and, as yet, have little acquaintance in the 



TO JIRS. DUNLOP. 



S29 



iieighbourhood. Besides, I am now very 
busy oil ray farm, building a dwelliiisc-hnuse ; 
as at present I am almost an evangelical man 
in Nithsdale, for I have scarce " where to lay 
my liead." 

There are some passages in your last that 
brought tears in my eyes. "Tlie heart 
knoweth its own sorrows, and a stranger 
iiitermeddleth not therewith." The repusi- 
tory of these " sorrows of the heart " is a 
kind of sanctum sancforum : and 'tis only a 
chosen friend, and that, too, at particul.u, 
sacred times, who dares enter into them : — 

Heaven oft tears the bosom-chord* 
That nature finest strung. 

You will excuse this quotation for the 
s^ke of the author. Instead of entering on 
this subject farther, I shall transcribe you a 
few lines I wrote in a hermitage, belonging 
to a gentleman in my Nithsilale neighbour- 
hood. They are almost the only favours the 
muses have conferred on me in that country. 
* « * 

Since I am in the way of transcribing, the 
following were the production of yesterday, 
as I jogged through the wild hills of New 
Cumnock. I intend inserting them, or 
something like them, in an epistle I am 
going to write to the gentleman on whose 
friendship my Excise hopes depend, Mr. 
Graham of Fintr)-, one of the worthiest and 
most accomplished gentlemen, not only of 
this country, but, I will dare to say it, of 
this age. The following are just the first 
crude thoughts " unhousel'd, luianoiuted, 
unanealed : " — 

Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train, — 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main : 
The world were blest, did bliss on them 

depend. — 
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a 

friend ! " 
The little fate bestows they share as soon. 
Unlike sage, proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung 

boon. 
Let Prudence number o'er each sturdy son. 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun. 
Who feels by reason and who gives by rule. 
Instinct's a brute and sentiment a fool ! 
Who make poor icill do wait upon I should; 
We own they're prudent, but who owns 

they're good ? 

Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye, — 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
But come • « » • • 

Here the muse left me. I am astonished 
at what you tell me of Anthony's writing 



me. I never received it. Poor fellow ! you 
vex me much by telling me that he is unfor- 
tunate. I shall be in Ayrshire ten days 
from this date. I have just room for an old 
Roman farewell R. B. 



NO. CXL. 

TO MR. ^VILLIAM CRUIKSHANKS. 

Elllsland, August, 1783. 

I HAVE not room, my dear friend, to 
answer all the particulars of your last kind 
letter. I shall be in Edinburgh on some 
business very soon ; and as I shall be two 
days, or perhaps three in town, we shall 
discuss matters viva voce. iMy knee, I 
believe, will never be entirely well , and an 
unlucky fall this winter has made it still 
worse. I well remember the circumstance 
you allude to, respecting Creech's opinion 
of Jlr. Nicol ; but as the fi.-st gentleman 
owes me still about fifty pounds, 1 dare not 
meddle in the affair. 

It ga\e me a very heavy heart to read 
such accounts of the consequence of your 
quarrel with that puritanic, rotten-hearted, 

hell-commissioned scoundrel. A . If, 

notwithstanding your luiprccedented in- 
dustry in public, and your irreproachable 
conduct in private life, he still has you so 
much in his power, what ruin may he not 
bring on some others I could name? 

Many and happy returns of season to 
you, with your dearest and worthiest friend, 
and the lovely little pledge of your happy 
union. May the great Author of life, and 
of every enjoyment that can render life 
delightful, make her that comfortable 
blessing to you both, which you so ardently 
wish for, and which, allow me to say, you 
so well deserve ! Glance over the foregomg 
verses, and let me have your blots. Adif ;\. 
R. B. 



NO. CLXl. 

TO MrS DUNLOP. 

Muuchline, August \Oth, 1783. 

My jiuch Honoured Fkie.xd — Yours 
of the 24th June is before me. 1 found it, 
as well as another valued friend — my wife — 
waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire : I met 
both with the sincercst [ilcasure. 

When I write you. Madam, I do not sit 



330 



COREESPONDENCE OF UuRNS. 



down to answer every paragraph of yours, by 
echoing every sentiment, like the faithful 
Commons of Great Britain in Parliament 
asseinljlfil, answering a speech from the best 
of kings ! I express myself in the fulness 
of my heart, and may, perhaps, be guilty of 
neglecting some of your kind inquiries ; but 
not from your very odd reason, that I do not 
read your letters. All your epistles for sev- 
eral months have cost me nothing, except a 
swelling throb of gratitude, or a deep-felt 
sentiment of veneration. 

When Mrs. Burns, JMadam, first found 
herself "as women wish to be who love their 
lords," as I loved her nearly to distraction, 
we took steps for a private marriage. Her 
parents got the hint ; and not only forbade 
me her company and their house, but, on my 
rumoured West Indian voyage, got a warrant 
to put me in jail, till I should find security 
in my about-to-be paternal relation. You 
know my lu»ky reverse of fortune. On my 
eclatant return to Mauchline, I was made 
very welcome to visit my girl. The usual 
consequences began to betray her ; and as I 
was at that time laid up a cripple in Edin- 
burgh, she was turned, literally turned, out 
of doors, and I wrote to a friend to shelter 
her tdl my return, when our marriage was 
declared. Her happiness or misery were in 
my hands, and who could trifle with such a 
deposit ? 

I can easily fancy a more agreeable com- 
panion for my journey of life ; but, upon my 
honour, I have never seen the individual 
instance. 

Circumstanced as I am, I could never have 
got a female partner for life, who could have 
entered into my favourite studies, relished 
my favourite authors, &c., without probably 
entailing on me, at the same time, expensive 
living, fantastic caprice, perhaps apish aflec- 
tation, with all the other blessed boarding- 
school acquirements, which (pardoiines rnoi, 
Madame) are sometimes to be found among 
females of the upper ranks, but almost uni- 
versally pervade the misses of the would-be 
gentry. 

I like your way in your churchyard lucu- 
brations. Thoughts that are the sponta- 
neous result of accidental situations, either 
respecting health, place or company, have 
often a strength, and always an originality, 
that would in vain be looked for in fancied 
circumstances and studied paragraphs. For 
me, I have often thought of keeping a letter, 
in progression by me, to send you when tl>e 
sheet was written out. Now I talk of sheets, 
I must tell yvju, my reason for writing to you 
on paper of this kind is my pruriency of wri- 



ting to you at large. A page of post is on 
such a dis-social, narrow-minded scale, that 
that 1 cannot abide it ; and double letters, 
at least in my miscellaneous reverie manner, 
are a monstrous tax in a close correspond- 
ence. R. B. 



NO. CXLIl. 

TO THE SAME. 



Ellisland, Amjust IQth, 1783. 

I AM iu a tine disposition, my honoured 
friend, to send you an elegiac epistle, and 
want only geniri to make it quite Shensto- 
nian : — 

Why droops my heart with fancied woes 

forlorn ? 
Why sinks my sold beneath each wintry sky ? 

My increasing cares in this, as yet, strange 
country — gloomy conjectures in the dark 
vista of futurity — consciousness of my own 
inability for the struggle of the world — my 
broadened mark to misfortune in a wife and 
children ; — I could indulge these reflections, 
till my humour should ferment into the most 
acid chagrin, that would corrode the \er'; 
thread of life. 

To counterwork these baneful feelings, I 
have sat down to write to you ; as I declare 
upon my soul I always find that the most 
sovereign Ijalm for my wounded spirit. 

I was yesterday at Mr. Miller's to diimer, 
for the first time. My reception was quite 
to my mind : from the lady of the house 
quite flattering. She sometimes hits on a 
couplet or two, impromptu. She repeated 
one or two to the admiration of all present. 
My suff'rage as a professional man was ex- 
pected : it for once went agonising over the 
belly of my conscience. Pardon me, ye, my 
adored household sods, independence of spi- 
rit, and integrity of soul ! In the course of con- 
versation " Johnson's Musical Museum," a 
collection of Scottish songs with the music, 
was talked of. We got a song on the harp- 
sichord, beginning. 

Raving winds around her blowang. 

The air was much admired : the lady of the 
house asked me whose were the words. 
" Mine, Madam — they are indeed my very 
best verses : " she took not the smallest 
notice of them ! The old Scottish proverb 
says well, "King's caff is better than ither 
folks' corn." I was going to make a New 



TO IIR. BEUGO. 



S31 



Testament quotation about "casting pearls," 
but tliat would be too virulent, for the lady 
is actually a woman of sense and taste. 

After all that has been said on the other 
side of the question, man is by no means a 
happy creature. I do not speak of the 
selected few, favoured by partial heaven, 

I whose souls are tuned to jjladness amid 

riches, and honours, and prudence and wis- 

I dom. I speak of the neglected many, whose 

uerv es, whose sinews, whose days, are sold 
to the minions of fortune. 

If I thought you had never seen it, I 
would transcribe for you a stanza of an old 
Scottish ballad, called " The Life and Age of 
Man ;" beginning thus : — 

'Twas in the sixteenth hundredth year 

Of God and tifty-three 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear. 

As writings testifie. 

I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my 
mother lived a while in her girlish years ; 
the good old man, for such he was, was long 
blind ere he died, during which time his 
highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, 
while my mother would sing the simple old 
song of "The Life and Age of Alan." 

It is this way of thinking ; it is these 
melancholy truths, that make religion so 
precious to the poor, miserable children of 
men. If it is a mere phantom, existing only 
in the heated imagination of enthusiasm. 

What truth on earth so precious as the lie ? 

My idle reasonings sometimes makes me a 
little sceptical, but the necessities of my 
heart always give the cold philosophisings 
the lie. Who looks for the heart weaned 
from earth ; the soul attianced to her God ; 
the correspondence fixed with heaven ; the 
pious supplication and devout thanksgiving, 
constant as the vicissitudes of even and 
morn ; who thinks to meet with these in the 
court, the palace, in the glare of public life ? 
No: to find them in their precious im- 
portance and divine efficacy, we must search 
among the obscure recesses of disappoint- 
ment, affliction, poverty, and distress. 

I am sure, dear Madam, you are now 
more than pleased with the length of my 
letters. I return to Ayrshire middle of 
next week : and it quickens my pace to 
think that there will be a letter from you 
waiting me there. I must be here again 
very soon for my harvest. R. B. 



NO. CXLIII. 

TO MR. BEUGO, 

ENGRAVER, EDINBURGH. 

EllUland, Sept. 9th, 17S3. 
My Dear Sir — There is not in Edin- 
burgh above the number of the graces whose 
letters would have given me so much 
pleasure as yours of the 3rd instant, which 
only reached me yesternight. 

1 am here on my farm, busy with my 
harvest ; but for all that most pleasurable 
part of life called social com.munication, 
I am here at the very elbow of existence. 
The only things that are to be found in this 
country, in any degree of perfection, are 
stupidity and canting. Prose, they only 
know in graces, prayers, &c., and the value 
of these they estimate, as they do their 
plaiding webs — by the ell ! As for the 
muses, they have as much an idea of a 
rhinoceros as of a poet. For my old capri- 
cious but good-natured hussy of a muse : — 
By banks of Nith I sat and wept 

When Coila I thought on, 
In midst thereof I hung my harp 
The willow trees upon. 
I am generally about half my time in Ayrshire 
with my "darling Jean;" and then I, at 
lucid intervals, throw my horny fist across 
my be-cobwebbed lyre, much in the same 
manner as an old wife throws her hand 
across the spokes of her spinning-wheel. 

I will send you the "Fortunate Shep- 
herdess " as soon as I return to Ayrsliire, 
for there I keep it with other precious 
treasure. I shall send it by a careful hand, 
as I would not for any thing it should be 
mi.slaid or lost. I do not wish to serve you 
from any benevolence, or other grave Clu-is- 
tian virtue ; 'tis purely a sellish gratitication 
of my own feelings whenever I think of you. 
If your better functions would give you 
leisure to write me, I should be extremely 
happy ; that is to say, if you neither keep 
nor look for a regular correspondence. I 
hate the idea of being obliged to write a 
letter. I sometimes write a friend twice 
a-week, at other times once a-quartcr. 

I am exceedingly pleased with your fancy 
hi making the author you mention place a 
map ol Iceland instead of his portrait before 
his works : 'twas a glorious idea. 

Could you conveniently do me one thing? 
— whenever you finish any head, I should 
like to have a proof copy of it. I migiit tell 
you a long story about your fine genius ; 
but, as what every body knows cannot liave 
escaped you, I shall not say one syllable 
about it. R. B. 



332 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



NO. CXLIV. 

TO MISS CHALMERS, EDINBURGH. 
Ellisland, near Dumfries, Sept. \Glh, 1788. 

Where are you? and liow are you? and 
is Lady IMackenzie recovering her health? 
for I have had but one sohtary letter from 
you, I will not think you have forgot me. 
Madam ; and, for my part — 

AVhen tliee, Jerusalem, I forget, 
Skill part from my right hand I 

" My heart is not of that rock, nor my soul 
careless as that sea." I do not make my 
progress among mankind as a bowl does 
among its fellows — rolling through the 
crowd without bearing away any mark or 
impression, except where they hit in hostile 
collision. 

I am here, driven in with my harvest-folks 
by bad weather ; and as you and your sister 
once did me the honour of interesting your- 
selves much a Verjard de moi, I sit down to 
beg the continuation of your goodness. I 
can truly say that, all the exterior of life 
apart, I never saw two whose esteem flattered 
the noble feelings of my soul — I will not 
say more, but so much, as Lady Mackenzie 
and Miss Chalmers. When I think of you 
— hearts the best, minds the noblest of 
human kind — unfortunate even in the 
shades of life — when I think I have met 
wiih you, and have lived more of real life 
with you in eight days than I can do with 
almost any body I meet with in eight years 
— when I think on the improbability of 
meeting you in this world again — I could 
sit down and cry like a child ! If ever you 
honoured me with a place in your esteem, I 
trii^t I can now plead more desert. I am 
secure against that crushing grip of iron 
poverty, which, alas ! is less or more fatal 
to the native worth and purity of, I fear, 
the nol)lest souls ; and a late important step 
m my life has kindly taken me out of the 
way of those ungrateful iniquities, which, 
however overlooked in fashionable licence, 
or varnished in fashionable phrase, are 
indeed bwt lighter and deeper shades of 

VILLANY. 

Shortly after my last return to Ayrshire, 
I married " ray Jean." This was not in 
consequence of the attachment of romance, 
perhaps ; but I had a long and much loved 
fellow-creature's happiness or misery in my 
determination, and I durst not trifle with so 
important a deposit. Nor have I any 
cause to repent it. If I have not got polite 
tattle, modish manners, and fashionable 



dress, I am not sickened and disgusted with 
the multiform curse of boarding-schnol 
affectation . and I have got the handsomest 
figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest 
constitution, and the kindest heart, in the 
county. Mrs. Burns believes, as firmly as 
her creed, that I am le plus bel espirit, el 
le plus honiiite liomme in the universe ; 
although she scarcely ever in her life, except 
the Scriptures of the Old and New Testa- 
ment, and the Psalms of David in metre, 
spent five minutes together on either prose 
or verse. I must except also from this last 
a certain late publication of Scots poems, 
which she has perused very devoutly ; and 
all the ballads in tlie country, as she has 
(oh, the partial lover ! you wi'l cry) the 
finest " wood note wild " I ever heard. I 
am the more particular in this lady's 
character, as I know she will henceforth 
have the honour of a share in your best 
wishes. She is still at Mauchline, as I am 
building my house ; for this hovel that I 
shelter in, while occasionally here, is per- 
vious to every biust that blows, and every 
shower that falls ; and I am only preserved 
from being chilled to death by being 
suffocated with smuke. I do not find my 
farm that pennyworth I was taught to ex- 
pect, but I believe, in time, it may be a 
saving bargain. You will be pleased to 
hear that 1 have laid aside idle eclat, and 
bind every day after my reapers. 

To save me from that horrid situation 
of at any time going down, in a losing 
bargain of a farm, to misery, I have taken 
my Excise instructions, and have my com- 
mission in my pocket for any emergency of 
fortune. If I could set all before my view, 
whatever disrespect you, in common with 
the world, have for this business, 1 know 
you would approve of my idea. 

I will make no apology, dear Madam, 
for this egotistic detail ; 1 know you and 
your sister will be interested in every cir- 
cumstance of it. What signify the silly, 
idle gewgaws of wealth, or the ideal trum- 
pery of greatness! When fellow-partakers 
of the same nature fear the same God, have 
the same benevolence of heart, the same 
nobleness of soul, the same detestation at 
every thing dishonest, and the same scorn 
at every thing unworthy — if they are not 
in the dependence of absolute beggary, in 
the name of cunimon sense, they are not 
EQUALS ? And if the bias, the instinctive 
bias of their souls run the same way, why 
may they not be frie.nds ? 

When I have an opportunity of sending 
you this, Heaven only knows. Shenstoue 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



333 



says, "When one is confined idle witliiu 
doors by bad weather, the best antidote 
against en/mi is to read tlie letters of, or to 
write to, one's friends ; " in that ease then, 
if the weather continues thus, I may scrawl 
you half a quire. 

1 very lately — to wit, since harvest bejan 
— wrote a poem, not in imitation, but in the 
manner, of Pope's Moral Epistles. It is only 
a short essay, just to try the strength of my 
Muse's pinion in that way. I will send you 
a copy of it, when once I have heard from 
you. I have likewise been laying the 
foundation of some pretty large poetic 
works : how the superstructure will come 
on, I leave to that great maker and marrer 
of projects — time. Johnson's collection of 
Scots songs is going on in the third volume; 
and, of consequence, finds me a consumption 
for a great deal of idle metre. One of the 
most tolerable things I have done in that 
way, is two stanzas I made to an air a 
musical gentleman of ray acquaintance com- 
posed for the aniversary of his wedding-day, 
which happens on the 7th of November. 
Take it as follows : — 

" The day returns — my bosom burns — 
The blissful day we twa did meet," &c. 

I shall give over this letter for shame. If 
I should be seized with a scribbling fit, before 
this goes away, I shall make it another 
letter ; and then you may allow your 
patience a week's respite between the two. 
I have not room for more than the old, kind, 
hearty farewell ! 



To make some amends, mes chores Mes- 
daines, for dragging you on to this second 
sheet, and to relieve a little the tiresome- 
ness of my unstudied and uncorrectible 
prose, I shall transcribe you some of my late 
poetic bagatelles ; though I have, these 
eight or ten months, done very little that 
way. One day, in a hermitage on the banks 
of Nith, belonging to a gentleman in my 
neighbourhood, who is so good as give me a 
key at pleasure, I wrote as follows, suppos- 
ing myself the sequestered, venerable in- 
habitant of the lonely mansion. 

UNES WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HER- 
MITAGE. 

* Thou whom chance va^y hither lead," &c. 
R. B. 



NO. CXLV. 

TO MR. MORRISON, MAUCHLINE. (78) 

Ellisland, September 22nd, 1783. 

My Dear Sir — Necessity obliges me to 
go into my new house even before it be 
plastered. I will inhabit the one end until 
the other is finished. About three weeks 
more, I think, will at farthest be my time, 
beyond which I cannot stay in this present 
house. If ever you wish to deserve the 
blessing of him that was ready to perish ; 
if ever you were in a situation that a little 
kindness would have rescued you from 
many evils ; if ever you hope to find rest in 
future states of untried being — get these 
matters of mine ready. My servant will be 
out in the beginning of next week for the 
clock. My compliments to Mrs. Morrison. 
I am, after all my tribulation, dear Sir, 
yours, R. B. 



NO. CLXVI. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. 

Maucldine, Sept. 21th, 1783. 

I HAVE received twins, dear Madam, more 
than once ; but scarcely ever with more plea- 
sure than when I received yours of the 12th 
instant. To make myself understood; Iliad 
wrote to Mr. Graham, enclosing my poem 
addressed to him, aud the same post which 
favoured me with yours brought me an an- 
swer from him. It was dated the very day 
he had received mine ; and I am quite at a 
loss to say whether it was most polite or 
khid. 

Your criticisms, my honoured benefactress, 
are truly the work of a friend. They are not 
the blasting depredations of a canker-toothed, 
caterpillar critic ; nor are they the fair state- 
ment of cold impartiality, balancing with 
unfeeling exactitude the pro and con of an 
author's merits ; they are the judicious ob- 
servations of animated friendship, selecting 
the beauties of the piece. I am just arrived 
from Nithsdale, and will be here a fortnight. 
I was on horseback this morning by thicc 
o'clock ; for between my wife and my farm 
is just forty-six miles. As I jogged on in 
the dark, I was taken with a poetic fit as 
follows : 

" Mrs. Fergusson of Craigdarroch's lamen- 
tation for the death of her son — an uncom- 
monly promising youth of eighteen or nine- 
teen years of age. 

Fate gave the word — the arrow sped. 

And pierced my darling's heart," &p. 



334 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



You will uot send me your poetic rambles, 
but, you see, I am no niggard of mine. I 
am sure your impromptus give me double 
pleasure ; what falls from your pen can 
neither be uiientertaiuing in itself, nor in- 
different to me. 

The one fault you found is just, but I 
cannot please myself in an emendation. 

What a life of solicitude is the life of a 
parent ! You interested me much in your 
young couple. 

I would not take my folio paper for this 
epistle, and now I repent it. I am so jaded 
with my dirty long journey that I was 
afraid to drawl into the essence of dulness 
with any thing larger than a quarto, and so 
I must leave out another rhyme of tills morn- 
ing's manufacture. 

I will pay the sapientipotent George most 
cheerfully to hear from you ere I leave 
Ayrshire B- B. 



NO. CLXVII. 

TO MR. PETER HILL. 

Mauchline, October \st, 1733. 

I HAVE been here in this country about 
three days, and all that time my chief read- 
ing has been the " Address to Lochlomond " 
you were so obliging as to send to me. 
Were I impaniielled one of the author's 
jury, to determine his criminality respecting 
the sin of poesy, ray verdict should be 
"Guilty! A poet of nature's making !" It is 
an excellent method for improvement, and 
what I believe every poet does, to place some 
favourite classic author in his own walks of 
study and composition, before him as a 
model. Though your author had not men- 
tioned the name, I could have, at half a 
glance, guessed his model to be Thomson. 
Will my brother-poet forgive me, If I ven- 
ture to hint that his imitation of that im- 
mortal bard is in two or three places rather 
more servile thau such a genius as his 
required : — e. g. 

To soothe the maddening passions all to 

peace. Address. 

To soothe the throbbing passions into peace. 

Thomson. 

I think the " Address " is in simplicity, 
hwmony, and elegance of versification, fully 
er(ual to the "Seasons." Like Thomson, too, 
he has looked into nature for himself: you 
meet with no copied description. One par- 
ticular criticism I made at first reading ; iu 



no one instance has he said too much. He 
never flags in his progress, but, like a true 
poet of Nature's making, kindles in his 
course. His beginning is simple and modest, 
as if distrustful of the strength of his pinion; 
only I do uot altogether like — 

Truth, 



The soul of every song that's nobly great. 

Fiction is the soul of many a song that is 
nobly great. Perhaps 1 am wrong : this 
may be but a prose criticism. Is not the 
phrase in line 7, page 6, " Great lake," too 
much vulgarised by every-day language for 
so sublime a poem ? 

Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song, 

is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration 
of a comparison with other lakes is at once 
harmonious and poetic. Every reader's ideas 
must sweep the 

Winding margin of an hundred miles. 

The perspective that follows mountains 
blue — the imprisoned billows beating in vain 
— the wooded isles — the digression on the 
yew-tree — " Benlomond's lofty, cloud-enve- 
lop'd head," &c. are beautiful. A thunder- 
storm is a subject which has often been tried, 
yet our poet in his grand picture has inter- 
jected a circumstance, so far as I know, 
entirely original : — 



The gloom 



Deep seam'd with frequent streaks of moving 
fire. 

In his preface to the storm, " the glens 
how dark between," is noble highland land- 
scape ! The "rain ploughing the red mould," 
too, is beautifully fancied. " Benlomond's 
lofty, pathless, top," is a good expression ; 
and the surrounding view from it is truly 
great : the 

silver mist. 



Beneath the beaming sun, 

is well described ; and here he has contrived 
to enliven his poem with a little of that 
passion which bids fair, I think, to usurp the 
modern muses altogether. I know not how 
far this episode is a beauty upon the whole, 
but the swain's wish to carry " some faint 
idea of the vision bright," to entertain her 
" partial listening ear," is a pretty thought, 
But, in my opinion,, the most beautiful pas- 
sages in the whole poem are the fowls 
crowding, in wintry frosts, to Lochlomond's 
"hospitable flood;" their wheeling round, 
their lighting, mixing, diving, &c. : and the 



TO THE EDITOR OF THE "COURANT." 



jjlorious description of the sportsman. This 
last is equal to any thing in the " Seasons." 
The idea of "the floating tribes distant seen, 
far glistening to the moon," provoking his 
eye as he is obliged to leave them, is a noble 
ray of poetic genius. " The howling winds," 
the " hideous roar" of " the white cascades," 
are all in the same style. 

I forget that while I am thus holding forth 
with the heedless warmth of an enthusiast, 
I am perhaps tiring you with nonsense. I 
must, however, mention that the last verse 
of the sixteenth page is one of the most 
elegant compliments I have ever seen, I 
must likewise notice that beautiful paragraph 
beginning " The gleaming lake," &c. I dare 
not go into the particular beauties of the last 
two paragraphs, but they are admirably fine, 
and truly Ossianic. 

I must beg your pardon for this lengthened 
scrawl. I had no idea of it when I began : — 
I should like to know who the author is ; but, 
whoever he be, please present him with my 
grateful thanks for the entertainment he has 
affordtd me. 

A friend of mine desired me to commission 
for him two books, "Letters on the Religion 
essential to Man," a book you sent me before; 
and " The World Unmasked, or the Philoso- 
pher the greatest Cheat." Send me them 
by the first opportunity. The bible you sent 
me is truly elegant ; I only wish it had been 
it two volume? K. B. 



NO. CXLVIII. 

TO THE EDITOR OF "EDINBURGH 
EVENING COURANT" 

November 8th, 1 783. 

Sir — Notwithstanding the opprobrious 
epithets with which some of our philosophers 
and gloomy sectarians have branded our 
nature — the principle of universal selfishness, 
the proneness to all evil, they have given us 
— still, the detestation in which inhumanity 
to the distressed, or insolence to the fallen, 
are held by all mankind, shows that they are 
not natives of the human heart. Even the 
unhappy partner of our kind who is undone | 



acknowledgment to the Author of all Good, 
for the consequent blessings of the glorious 
Revolution. To that auspicious event we 
owe no less than our liberties, civd and reli- 
gious ; to it we are likewise indebted for the 
present royal family, the ruling features of 
whose admuiistration have ever been tnild- 
ness to the subject, and tenderness of his 
rights. 

Bred and educated in revolution principles, 
the principles of reason and common sense, 
it could not be any silly political prejudice 
which made my heart revolt at the harsh, 
abusive manner in which the reverend gen- 
tleman mentioned the House of Stuart, and 
which, I am afraid, was too much the lan- 
guage of the day. ^Ve may rejoice sufticiently 
in our deliverance from past evils, without 
cruelly rakuig up the ashes of those whose 
misfortune it was, perhaps as much as their 
crime, to be the authors of those evils ; and 
we may bless God for all his goodness to us 
as a nation, without at the same time cursing 
a few mined, powerless exiles, who only 
harboured ideas, and made attempts, that 
most of us would have done, had we been in 
their situation. 

" The bloody and tyrannical House of 
Stuart" may be said with propriety and 
justice, when compared with the present 
royal family, and the sentiments of our days; 
but is there no allowance to be made for the 
manners of the times ? Were the royal 
contemporaries of the Stuarts mote attentive 
to their subjects' rights? Might not the 
epithets of " bloody and tyrannical " be, 
with' at least equal justice, applied to the 
House of Tudor, of York, or any other of 
their predecessors ? 

The simple state of the case. Sir, seems to 
be this : — At that period, the science of 
government, the knowledge of the true re- 
lation between king and subject, was, like 
other sciences and other knowledge, just iu 
its infancy, emerging from dark ages of igno 
ranee and barbarity. 

The Stuarts only contended forprerogatives 
which they knew their predecessors enjoyed, 
and which they saw their contemporaries 
enjoying ; but these prerogatives were ini- 
mical to the happiness of a nation and the 
rights of subjects. 

In this contest between prince and peo- 



• — the bitter consequence of his follies or his I pie, the consequence of that light of science 



crimes — who but sympathises with the 
miseries of this ruined profligate brother? 
We forget the injuries, and feel for the 
man. 

I went, last Wednesday, to my parish 
church, most cordially to join in grateful 

30 



which had lately dawned over Europe, the 
monarch of France, for example, was victo- 
rious over the struggling liberties of Ins 
people : with us, luckily, the monarch failed, 
and his unwarrantable pretensions fell a 
sacrifice to our rights and happiness. 



33G 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



Whether it was owing to the wisdom of 
leachiig individuals, or to the jostling of par- 
ties, I cannot pretend to determine ; but, 
like« ise, happily for us, the kingly power was 
shifted into another branch of the familj", 
who, as they owed the throne solely to the 
call of a free people, could claim nothing 
inconsistent with the covenanted terms 
which placed them there. 

'i'he Stuarts have been condemned and 
laughed at for the folly and impracticability 
of their attempts iu 1715 and 1745. _ That 
they failed, I bless God, but cannot join in 
the ridicule against them. Who does not 
iaiow that the abilities or defects of leaders 
and commanders are often hidden until put 
to the touchstone of exigency ; and that 
there is a caprice of fortune, an omnipotence 
in particular accidents and conjunctures of 
circumstances, which exalt us as heroes, or 
brand us as madmen, just as they are for or 
against us ? 

Man, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, 
inconsistent being : who would believe, Sir, 
than ill this our Augustan age of liberality 
and retiuement, while we seem so justly sen- 
sible and jealous of our rights aud liberties, 
and animated with such indignation against 
the very memory of those who would have 
subverted them — that a certain people under 
our national protection should complain, not 
against our monarch and a few favourite 
advisers, but against our whole legislative 
body, for similar oppression, and almost in 
the very same terms, as our forefathers did 
of the House of Stuart ! I will not, I can- 
not, enter into the merits of the case, but I 
dare say the American Congress, in 1776, 
will be allowed to be as able and as enlight- 
ened as the English Convention was in 
1668 ; and that their posterity will celebrate 
the centenary of their deliverance from us, 
as duly and sincerely as we do ours from the 
op|iressive measures of the wrong-headed 
House of Stuart. 

Tu conclude, Sir ; let every man who has 
a tear for the many miseries incident to 
humanity, feel for a family illustrious as any 
in Europe, and unfortunate beyond historic 
precedent ; and let every Briton (aud par 
ticularly every Scotsman), who ever looked 
wi'h reverential pity on the dotage of a 
parent, cast a veil over the fatal mistakes of 
the kings of his forefathers. 

Bi. B. 



NO. CXLIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

AT MOREHAM MAINS. 

Mauchline, November \Zth, 1783. 

Madam — I had the very great pleasure 
of dining at Dunlop yesterday. Men are 
said to flatter women because they are weak : 
— if it be so, poets must be weaker still ; 
for Misses 11. and K., and Miss G. M'K., 
with their flattering attentions and artful 
compliments, absolutely turned ray head. I 
own they did not lard me over as many a 
poet does his patron, but they so intoxicated 
me with their s1y insinuations and delicate 
inuendos of compliment, that if it had not 
been for a lucky recollection how much 
additional weight and lustre your good opi- 
nion and friendship must give me iu that 
circle, I had certainly looked upon myself as 
a person of no small consequence. I dare 
not say one word how much I was charmed 
with the major's friendly welcome, elegant 
manner, and acute remark, lest I should be 
thought to balance my orientalisms of ap- 
plause over-against the finest quey (79) in 
Ayrshire which he made me a present of to 
help and adorn my farm-stock. As it waa 
on hallow-day, I am determined annually 
as that day returns, to decorate her horns 
with an ode of gratitude to the family 
of Dunlop. 

So soon as I know of your arrival at 
Dunlop, I will take the first conveniency to 
dedicate a day, or perhaps two, to you and 
friendship, under the guarantee of the major's 
hospitality. There will soon be threescore 
and ten miles of permanent distance between 
us ; and now that your friendship and 
friendly correspondence are entwisted with 
the heart-strings of my tnjiyment of life, I 
must indulge myself in a happy day of " The 
feast of reason and the flow of soul." 

R. B, 



NO. CL. 

TO MR,. JAMES JOHNSON, 

ENGRAVER. 

Mauchline, November I5th, 1788. 

My Dear Sir— I have sent you two 
more songs. If you have got any tunes, or 
any thing to correct, please send them by 
return of the carrier. 



TO MRS. DUN LOP. 



I can easily see, my dear friend, that you 
will probably have four volumes. Perhaps 
you may not find your account lucratively 
in this business ? but you are a patriot for 
tiie music of your country, and I am certain 
posterity will look on themselves as highly 
indebted to your public spirit. Be not 
in a hurry ; let us go on correctly, and your 
name shall be immortal. 

1 am preparing a flamiug preface for your 
third volume. I see every day new musical 
publications advertised ; but what are they ? 
Gaudy, painted butterflies of a day, and then 
vanish lor ever : but your work will outlive 
the momentary ne^^lccts of idle fashion, and 
defy the teeth of time. 

Have you never a fair goddess that leads 
you a \^ ildgoose chase of amorous devotion ? 
Let me know a few of her qualities, such as 
whether she be rather black or fair, plump 
or thin, ^hurt or tall, &c. ; and choose your 
air, and I shall task my muse to celebrate 
her. R. B. 



TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 
Mauchline, November I5th, 1788. 

Reverend and Dear Sir — As I hear 
nothing of your motions, but that you are, 
nr were, out of town, I do not know where 
this may find you, or whether it will find 
you at all. I wrote you a long letter, dated 
from the land of matrimony, in June; but 
either it haa not found you, or, what I dread 
more, it found you or Mrs. Blacklock in too 
precarious a state of health and spirits to 
lake notice of an idle packet. 

I have done many little things for John- 
son, since I had the pleasure of seeing you ; 
and T have finished one piece in the way 
of Pope's " !Moral Epistles;" but, from 
your silence, I have everything to fear, 
so I have only sent you two melancholy 
"ihings, which I tremble lest they should 
too well suit the tone of your present 
feelings. 

In a fortnight I move, bag and baggage, 
to Nith^dale; till then, my direction is at 
this place ; after that period, it will be at 
Kllislanil, near Dumfries. It wo\ild ex- 
tremely oblige me were it but a half a line, 
to let me know how you are. Can I be 
in litferent to the fate of a man to whom I 
owe so much — a man whom I not only 
eateem, but venerate ? 



^My warmest good wishes and most 
respectful compliments to Mrs. Blackloci, 
and Miss Johnston, if she is with you. 

I cannot conclude without telling you that 
I am more and more pleased with the step I 
took respecting "my Jean." Two things, from 
my liappy experience, I set down as apo- 
phthegms in life. A wife's head is immaterial, 
compared with her heart ; and — " Vn-tue's 
(for wisdom what poet pretends to it ?) 
ways are ways of pleasantness, and all 
her paths are peace." Adieu I 

R. B. 



NO. CLII. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, December 11 th, 1788. 

My Dear Honoured Friend — Yours, 
dated Edinburgh, which I have just read, 
makes me very unhappy. " Almost blind 
and wholly deaf," are melancholy news of 
a much-loved and honoured friend; they 
carry misery in the sound. Goodness on 
your part, and gratitude on mine, began a 
tie which has gradually entwisted itself 
among the dearest chords of my bosom, and 
( I tremble at the omens of yoiir late and 
present ailing habit and shattered health. 
You miscalculate matters widely, when you 
forbid my waiting on you, lest it should 
hurt my worldly concerns. My small scale 
of farming is exceedingly more simple and 
easy t'lan what you have lately seen at 
Moreham Mains. But, be that as it may, 
the heart of the man and the fancy of the 
poet are the two grand considerations for 
which I live : if miry ridges and dirty dung- 
hills are to engross the best part of the 
functions of my soul immortal, I had better 
been a rook or a magpie at once, and then 
I should not have been plagued with any 
ideas superior to breaking of cloils and 
picking up grubs ; not to mention barn- 
door cocks or mallards, creatures with 
which 1 could alino<r exchange lives at any 
time. If you contiu le so deaf, I am afraid 
a visit will be no gicat pleasure to eithvr of 
us ; but if I hear you are got so well again 
as to be able to relish conversation, look 
you to it, iladam, for I will make my thrcat- 
enings good. I am to be at the New-year- 
day fair of Ayr : and, by all that is 
sacred in the world, friend, I will come and 
see you. 

Your meeting, which you so well describe, 
with your own schoolfellow and friend, was 
truly interesting. Out upon the ways of 



338 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



the world ! They spoil these " social off- 
springs of the heart." Two veterans of the 
'• men of the world " would have met 
with little more heart-workings than two 
old hacks worn out on the road. Apro- 
pos, is not the Scotch phrase, " auld lang 
syne," exceedingly expressive? There is an 
old song and tune which has often thrilled 
through my soul. You know I am an 
enthusiast in old Scotch songs. I shall 
give you the verses on the other sheet, 
as I suppose Mr. Ker will save you the 
postage. 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot ? &c. 

Light be the turf on the breast of the 
Heaven-inspired poet who composed this 
glorious fragment ! There is more of the 
fire of native genius in it than in half a 
dozen of modern English Bacchanalians ! 
Now I am on my hjbby-horse, I cannot 
help inserting two other old stanzas, which 
please me mightily : 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, &c. 

R. B. 



NO. CLIII. 



TO MISS DAVIES. 

December, 1788. 

Madam — ^I understand my very worthy 
neighbour, Mr. Riddel, haa informed you 
that I have made you the subject of some 
verses. There is something so provoking in 
the idea of being the burden of a ballad, that 
I do not think Job or Moses, though such 
patterns of patience and meekness, could 
have resisted the curiosity to know what that 
ballad was ; so my wortliy friend has done 
me a mischief, which I dare say he never 
intended, and reduced me to the unfortunate 
alternative of leaving your curiosity ungra- 
tified, or else disgusting you with foolish 
verses, the unfinished production of a ran- 
dom moment, and never meant to have met 
your ear. I have heard or read somewhere 
of a gentleman who had some genius, much 
eccentricity, and very considerable dexterity 
with his pencil. In the accidental group of 
life into which one is thrown, wherever this 
gentleman met with a character in a more 
than ordinary degree congenial to his heart, 
he used to steal a sketch of the face, merely, 
he said, as a iiota bene, to point out the 
agreeable recollection to his memory. What 
this gentleman's pencil was to him, my muse 
it to me : and the verses 1 do myself the 



honour to send you are a memento exact'>^ of 
the same kind that he indulged in. 

It may be more owing to the fastidiousness 
of my caprice than the delicacy of my taste, 
but I am so often tired, disgusted, and hurt, 
with the insipidity, affectation, and pride of 
mankind, that when I meet with a person 
"after my own heart," I positively feel what 
an orthodox Protestant would call a species 
of idolatry, which acts on my fancy like in- 
spiration ; and I can no more desist rhyming 
on the impulse, than an jEolian harp can 
refuse its tones to the streaming air. A 
distich or two would be the consequence, 
though the object which hit my fancy were 
grey-bearded age; but where my theme is 
youth and beauty, a young lady whose per- 
sonal charms, wit, and sentiment, are equally 
striking and unaffected — by Heavens! though 
I had lived threescore years a married man, 
and tlireescore years before I was a married 
man, my imagination would hallow the very 
idea : and I am truly sorry that the enclosed 
stanzas have done such poor justice to such 
a subject. R. B.' 



NO. CLIV. 



TO MR. JOHN TENNANT. 

December 22nd, 1788. 

I YESTERDAY tried my cask of whisky 
for the first time, and I assure you it does 
you great credit. It will bear five waters, 
strong, or six, ordinary toddy. The whisky 
of tliis country is a most rascally liquor; 
and, by consequence, only drunk by the 
most rascally part of the inhabitants. I am 
persuaded, if you once get a footing here, 
you might do a great deal nf business, in the 
way of consumpt ; and should you commence 
distiller again, this is the native barley 
country. I am ignorant if, in your present 
way of dealing, you would thuik it worth 
your while to extend your busniess so far 
as this country side. I write you this on 
the account of an accident, which I must 
take the merit of havhig par.ly designed to. 
A neighbour of mine, a John Currie, miller 
in Carse-mill — a man who is, in a word, a 
"very" good man, even for a £500 bargain 
— he and his wife were in my house the 
time I broke open the cask. They keep a 
country public-house iiud sell a great deal ol 
foreign spirits, but all along thought that 
whisky would have degraded this liouse. 
They were perfectly astonished at my whisk/, 
both for its taste &id strength; and, by 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



839 



their desire, I write you to know if you could 
supply them with liquor of an equal quality, 
and what price. Please write me by first 
post, and direct to me at EUislaiid, near 
Dumfries. If you could take a jaunt this 
way yourself, I have a spare spoon, knife and 
fork, very much at your service. My com- 
pliments to Jlrs. Tennant, and all the good 
folks in Glenconner and Barquharrie. 

K B. 



TO THE REV. P. CARFRAj;. 

1789. 

Rev. Sir — I do not recollect that I have 
ever felt a severer pang of shame, than on 
looking at the date of your obliging letter 
which accompanied Mr. Mylne's poem. 

I am much to blame: the honour Mr. 
Mylne has done me, greatly enhanced in its 
value by the endearing, though melancholy 
circumstance of its being the last production 
of his muse, deserved a better return. 

I have, as you hint, tliought of sending a 
copy of the poem to some periodical publica- 
tion ; but, on second thoughts, I am afraid 
that, in the present case, it would be an 
improper step. My success, perhaps as 
much accidental as merited, has brought an 
inundation of nonsense under the name of 
Scottish poetry. Subscription-bills for Scot- 
tish poems have so dunned, and daily do 
dun the public, that the very name is in 
danger of contempt. For these reasons, if 
publishing any of Mr. Jlylne's poems in a 
Magazine, &c., be at all prudent, in my 
opinion, it certainly should not be a Scottish 
poem. The profits of the labours of a man 
of genius are, I hope, as honourable as any 
profits whatever ; and Mr. IMylne's relations 
are most justly entitled to that honest 
harvest which fate has denied himself to 
reap. But let the friends of Mr. Mylne's 
fame (among whom I crave the honour of 
ranking myself) always keep in eye his 
respectability as a man and as a poet, and 
take no measure that, before the world 
knows anything about him, would risk his 
name and character being classed with the 
fools of the times. 

I have. Sir, some experience of publishing ; 
and the way in which I would proceed with 
Mr. Mylne's poems, is this: — I will publish, 
in two or three English and Scottish public 
papers, any one of his English poems which 
should, by private jiulges, be thought the 
most excellent, and mention it, at the same 



time, as one of the productions of a Lothian 
farmer of respectable character, lately de- 
ceased, whose poems his friends had it in 
idea to publish soon by subscription, for the 
sake of his numerous family ; not in pity to 
that family, but in justice to what his friends 
think the poetic merits of the deceased ; and 
to secure, in the most effectual manner, to 
those tender connexions, whose right it is, 
the pecuniary reward of those merits. 

R. B. (80) 



NO. CLVI. 



30* 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Ellisland, New-year-day Morning, 1789. 

Tins, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes, 
and would to God that I came under the 
apostle James's description ! — the prayer of 
a righteous man availeth much. In that case, 
Madam, you should welcome in a year fidl of 
blessings : every thing that obstructs or 
disturbs tranquillity and self-enjoyment, 
should be removed, and every pleasure that 
frail humanity can taste, should be yours. 
I own myself so little a Presbyterian, that I 
approve of set times and seasons of more 
than ordinary acts of devotion, for breaking 
in on that habituated routine of life and 
thought, which is so apt to reduce our 
existence to a kind of instinct, or even some- 
times, and with some minds, to a state very 
little superior to mere machinery. 

This day; the first Sunday of May; a 
breezy, blue-skied noon some time about the 
beginning, and a hoary morning and calm 
sunny day about the end, of autumn ; these, 
time out of mind, have been with me a kind 
of holiday. 

I believe I owe this to that glorious paper 
in the Spectator, "The "Vision of Mirza," a 
piece that struck my young fancy before I 
was capable of fixing an idea to a word of 
three syllables; — "On the 5th day of the 
moon, which, according to the custom of my 
forefathers, I always keep holy, after ha\ing 
washed myself and offered up my morning 
devotions, I ascended the high hill of Bagdad, 
in order to pass the rest of the day in medi- 
tation and prayer." 

We know nothing, or next to nothing, of 
the substance or structure of our souls, so 
cannot account for those seeming caprices in 
them, that one should be particularly 
pleased with this thing, or struck with tluit, 
which, on minds of a different cast, makc-s 
no extraordinary impression. I have some 



'6M 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



favourite flowers in spring, amoug whicli are 
the mountain-daisy, the harebell, the foxglove, 
the wild-briar rose, the budding birch, and 
the hoary hawthorn, that I view and liang 
over with particular delight. I never heard 
the loud, solitary whistle of the curlew in a 
summer noon, or the wild mixing cadence of 
a troop of grey plovers, in an autumnal 
morning, without feeling an elevation of 
soul like the enthusiasm of devotion or 
poetry. Tell lue, my dear friend, to what 
can this be owing ? Are we a piece of 
machinery, which, like the ^olian harp, 
passive, takes the impression of the passing 
accident ? Or do these workings argue 
something above us above the trodden clod? 
I own myself partial to such proofs of those 
awful and important realities — a God that 
made all things — man's immaterial and im- 
mortal nature — and a world of weal or woe 
beyond death and the grave. 

R. B. (81). 



NO. CLVII. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

ElUsland, Jan. Ath, 1789. 

Sir — As often as I think of writing to 
you, which has been three or four times 
every week these six months, it gives me 
something so like the idea of an ordinary- 
sized statue offering at a conversation with 
the Rhodian colossus, that my mind mis- 
gives me, and the affair always miscarries 
somewhere between purpose and resolve. I 
have at last got some business with you, 
and business letters are written by the 
style-book. I say my business is with you. 
Sir, for you never hai any with me, except 
the business that benevolence has in the 
mansion of poverty. 

The character and employment of a poet 
were formerly my pleasure, but are now my 
pride. I know that a very great deal of my 
late eclat was owing to the singularity of 
my situation, and the honest prejudice of 
Scotsmen ; but still, as I said in the preface 
to my tirst edition, I do look upon myself 
as having some pretensions from nature to 
the pot'.ic character. I have not a doubt 
but the knack, the aptitude, to learn the 
muses' trade, is a gift bestowed by Him 
" who forms the secret bias of the soul ; " — 
but I as firmly believe, that excellence in the 
profession is the fruit of industry, labour, 
attention, and pains. At least I am re- 
solved to try my doctrhie by the test of eK- 
perieiioe. Another appearance from the 



press I put off 1 o a very listant day, a day 
that may never arrive — but poesy I am de- 
termined to prosecute with all my vigour. 
Nature has given very few, if any, of the 
professions, the talents of shining iu everj 
species of composition. I shall try (for 
until trial it is impossible to know) whether 
she has qualified me to shine in any one. 
The worst of it is, by the time one has 
finished a piece, it has been so often viewed 
and reviewed before the mental eye, that 
one loses in a good measure the powers of 
critical discrimination. Here the best 
criterion I know is a friend — not only of 
abilities to judge, but with good-nature 
enough, like a prudent teacher with a young 
learner, to praise perhaps a little more than 
is exactly just, lest the thin-skinned animal 
fall into that most deplorable of all poetic 
diseases — heart-breaking despondency of 
himself. Dare I, Sir, already immensely 
indebted to your goodness, ask the ad- 
ditional obligation of your being that friend 
to me ? I enclose you an essay of mine, in 
a walk of poesy to me entirely new ; I mean 
the epistle addressed to R. G., Esq., or 
Robert Graham, of Fintry, Esq., a gentle- 
man of uncommoif worth, to whom I lie 
under very great obligations. The story of 
the poem, like most of my poems, is con- 
nected with my own story, and to give you 
the one, I must give you something of the 
other. I cannot boast of Mr. Creech's 
ingenuous fair dealing to me. He kept me 
hanging about Edinburgh from the 7th 
August, 1787, until the 13th April, 1783, 
before he would condescend to give me a 
statement of affairs ; nor had I got it even 
then, but for an augry letter I wrote him, 
which irritated his pride. " I could " not a 
"tale," but a detail," unfold;" but, what am 
I, that should speak against the Lord's 
anointed Baillie of Edinburgh ? 

I believe, I shall, in whole, £100 copy- 
right included, clear about £400 some little 
odds ; and even part of this depends upon 
what the gentleman has yet to settle with 
me. I give you this information, because 
you did me the honour to interest yourself 
much in my welfare. I give you this in- 
formation, but I give it to yourself only, for 
I am still much in the gentleman's mercy. 
Perhaps I injure the man iu the idea I am 
sometimes tempted to have of him — God 
forbid 1 should ! A little time will try, for 
in a month I shall go to town to wind up 
the business if possible. 

To give the rest of my story in brief, I 
have married " my Jean," and taken a farm: 
with the first step 1 have every day more 



TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. 



341 



find more reason to be satisfied; with the 
last, it is rather the reverse. I have a 
younger brother, who supports mj' aged 
mother ; another still younger brother, and 
three sisters, in a farm. On my last return 
from Edinburgh, it cost me about £180 to 
save them from ruin. Not that I have lost 
80 much — I only interposed between my 
brother and his impending fate by the loan 
of so much. I give myself no airs on this, 
for it was mere selfishness on my part : I 
was ftouscious that the wrong scale of the 
balance was pretty heavily charged, and I 
tiirught that throwing a little tilial piety 
and fraternal affection into the scale in my 
favour, miulit help to smooth matters at the 
grand reck-uiiiiig. There is still one thing 
would make my circumstances quite easy : 
I have an Excise ofticer's commission, and I 
live in the midst of a country division. My 
request to Mr. Graham, who is one of the 
Commissioners of Excise, was, if in his power, 
to procure me that division. If I were very 
sanguine, I might hope that some of my 
great patrons might procure me a treasury 
warrant for supervisor, surveyor- general, &c. 
Thus, secure of a livelihood, "to thee, 
sweet poetry, delightfid maid," I would con- 
secrate my future days. R. B. 



I grant you enter the lists of life to strug- 
gle for bread, business, notice and distinction, 
in common with hundreds, But who are 
they ? Men like yourself, and of that ag 
gregate body your compeers, seven-tenths of 
them come short of your advantages, natural 
and accidental ; while two of those that re- 
main, either neglect their parts, as flowers 
blooming in a desert, or mis-spend their 
strength like a bull goring a bramble bu.sh. 
R. B. 



KO. CLVIII. 



TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

ElUslaud, January 6th, 1789. 

Many happy returns of the season to 
you, my dear Sir ! May you be com- 
paratively happy up to your comparative 
worth among the sons of men ; which wish 
would, I am sure, make you one of the most 
blest of the human race. 

I do not know if passing a "writer to the 
signet " be a trial of scientific merit, or a 
mere business of friends and interest. 
However it be, let me quote you my two 
favourite passages, which, though I have re- 
peated them ten thousand times, still they 
rouse my manhood and steal my resolutions 
like inspiration. 



On Reason budd receive. 



That column of true majesty in man. 

Young. 
Hear, Alfred, hero of the state 
Thy genius heaven's high will declare; 
Tne fiumph of the truly great. 
Is never, ne%er to despair ! 
Is never to despair. — Masque of Alfred. 



NO. CLIX. 

TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. 
EUisland, Jan. 20th, 1789. 

Sir — Tlie enclosed sealed packet I sent to 
Edinburgh, a few days after 1 had the happi- 
ness of meeting you in Ayrshire, but you 
were gone for the continent. I have now 
added a few more of my productions, those 
for which I am indebted to the Nithsdale 
JMuses. The piece inscribed to R. G. I'^sq., 
is a copy of verses I sent Mr. Graham of 
Fintry, accompanying a request for his as- 
sistance in a matter to me of very great 
moment. To that gentleman 1 am already 
doubly indebted ; for deeds of kindness of 
serious import to my dearest interests, done 
in a manner grateful to the delicate feelings 
of seasibFlity. This ^oem is a species of 
composition new to me, but I do not inteml 
it shall be my last essay of the kind, as you 
will see by the " Poet's Progress." These 
fragments, if my design succeed, are but a 
small part cf the intended whole. I propose 
it shall be the work of my utmost exertions, 
ripened by years ; of course I do not wish it 
much known. The fragment beginning "A 
little upright, pert, tart," &c., I have not 
shown to man living, till I now send it you. 
It forms the postulata, the axioms, the defi- 
nition of a character, which, if it appear at 
all, shall be placed in a variety of lights. 
This particular part 1 send you merely as a 
sample of my hand at portrait-skelchnig ; 
but, lest idle conjecture should pn-tend to 
point out the original, please to let it be for 
your single, sole inspection. 

NcL'd I make any apology for this trouble, 
to a gentleman who has treated life with such 
marked benevolence and peculiar kindness ; 
who has entered into my interests with so 
much zeal, and on whose critical ilccisions 1 
can so fully depend ? A poet as 1 am by 
trade, these decisions are to me of the last 
consequence. My late transient acquaint- 
ance among some of the mere rank and tUe 



34j 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



of greatness, I regin;n with ease ; but to the 
distinguished champions of genius and learn- 
ing, I shall ever be ambitious of being known. 
The native genius and accurate discernment 
in Mr. Stewart's critical strictures ; the 
justice (iron justice, for he has no bowels of 
compassion for a poor poetic sijiner) of Dr. 
Oregory's remarks, and the delicacy of Pro- 
fessor Dalzel's taste, 1 shall ever revere. 

1 shall be in Edinburgh some time next 
month. I have the honour to be, Sir, your 
highly obliged, and very humble servant, 
R. B. 



TO BISHOP GEDDES. (82) 

Ellisland, Feb. Srd, 1789. 

Venerable Father — As I am con- 
scious that, wherever I am, you do me the 
honour to interest yourself in my welfare, it 
gives me pleasure to inform you, that I am 
here at last, stationary in the serious business 
of life, and have now not only the retired 
leisure, but the hearty inclination, to attend 
to those great and important questions — 
what I am; where I am; and for what I am 
destined. 

In that first concern, the conduct of the 
man, there was ever but one side on which I 
was habitually blanieable, and there I have 
secured myself in the way pointed out by 
nature and nature's God. I was sensible 
that, to so helpless a creature as a poor poet, 
a wife and family were incumbrances, which 
a species of prudence would bid hira shun ; 
but when the alternative was, being at ete.'- 
nal warfare with myself, on account of 
habitual follies, to give them no worse name, 
which no general example, no licentious wit, 
no sophistical infidelity, would, to me, ever 
justify, I must have been a fool to have 
hesitated, and a madman to have made 
another choice. Besides, I had in "my Jean" 
a long and much-loved fellow-creature's hap- 
jijiness or misery among my hands, and who 
could trifle with such a deposit ? 

In the affair of a livelihood, I think myself 
tolerably secure : I have good hopes of my 
farm ; but shoiild they fail, I have an Excise 
commission, which, on my simple petition, 
will at any time procure me bread. There is 
a certain stigma affixed to the character of an 
E.\(■l^e officer, but I do not pretend to borrow 
honour from my profession ; and though the 
salary be comparatively small, it is luxury to 
any thing that the first tweuty-five years of 
iny life taught me to expect. 



Thus, with a rational aim and method in 
life, you may eaily guess, my reverend and 
much honoured friend, that my characteris- 
tic trade is not forgotten. I am, if possible, 
more than ever an enthusiast to the muses. 
I am determined to study man and nature, 
and in that view incessantly ; and to try if 
the ripening and corrections of years can 
enable me to produce something worth pre- 
serving. 

You will see in your book, which I beg 
your pardon for detaining so long (83), that 
I have been tuning my lyre on the banks of 
Nith. Some large poetic plans that are 
floating in my imagination, or partly put in 
execution, I shall impart to you when I have 
the pleasure of meeting with you, which, if 
you are then in Edinburgh, I shall have 
about the beginning of March. 

That acquaintance, worthy Sir, with which 
you were pleased to honour me, you must 
still allow me to challenge ; for with what- 
ever unconcern I give up my transient con- 
nection with the merely great, 1 cannot lose 
the patronising notice of the learned and 
good without the bitterest regret. 

R. B. 



NO. CLXI. 

TO MR. JAMES BURNESS. 

Ellisland, Feb. 9t/i, 1789. 

My Dear Sir — Why I did not write to 
you long ago is what, even on the rack, I 
could not answer. If you can in your mind 
form an idea of indolence, dissipation, hurry, 
caies, change of coimtry, entering on untried 
scenes of life, all combined, you will save me 
the trouble of a blushing apology. It could 
not be want of regard for a man for whom 
I had a high esteem before I knew him — 
an esteem which has much increased since 
I did know him ; and this caveat entered, I 
shall plead guilty to any other indictment 
with which you shall please to charge me. 

After I parted from you, for many months 
my life was one continued scene of dissipa- 
tion. Here, at last, I am become stationary, 
and have taken a farm and— a wife. 

The farm is beautifully situated on the 
Nith, a large river that runs by Dumfries, 
and falls into the Sohvay Frith. I have 
gotten a lease of my farm as long as I 
pleased ; but how it may turn out is just a 
guess, and it is yet to improve and enclose, 
&c. : however, I have good hopes of u;y 
bargain on the whole. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



343 



My wife is my Jean, with whose story you 
lire partly acfiuaintcd. I found I had a 
mucli-lovod felUiwcreature's liapiiiness or 
misery among my hands, and I durst not 
trille with so sacred a deposit. Indeed, I 
have not any reason to repent the step I 
have taken, as I liave attached myself to a 
very pood wife, and have shaken myself 
loose of every had failing. 

I have found ray book a very profitable 
business, and with the profits of it I have 
bi'gun life pretty decently. Should fortune 
not favour me in farming, as I have no great 
faith in her fickle ladyship, I have provided 
myself iu another resource, which, however 
some folks may affect to despise it, is still a 
comfortable shift iu the day of misfortune. 
In the heyday of my fame, a gentleman, 
whose name, at least, I dare say you know, 
as his estate lies somewhere near Dundee, 
Mr. Graham of Fintry, one of the Commis- 
sioners of Excise offered me the commission, 
of an Excise officer. I thought it prudent to 
accept the offer ; and, accordingly, 1 took my 
instructions, and have my commission by me. 
AVhether I may ever do duty, or be a penny 
tlie better for it, is what I do not know ; 
but I have the comfortable assurance, that, 
come wliatever ill fate will, I can, on my 
simple petition to the Excise-board, get into 
employ. 

W'e have lost poor uncle Robert this 
winter, lie has long been very weak, and 
with very little alteration on him : he expired 
3rd January. 

His son William has been with me this 
winter, and goes in May to be an apprentice 
to a ma.sou. His otlicr son, the eldest, John, 
conies to me, I expect, in summer. They 
are both remarkably stout young fellows, 
and promise to do well. His only daughter, 
Fanny, has been with me ever since her 
father's dcalli. and I purpose keeping her in 
my family till she be ipute woman grown, 
and fit for better service. She is one of the 
cleverest gnls, and has one of the most 
amiable dispositions, I have ever seen. (84) 

All friends in this county and Ayrshire 
are well. Eemenibcr me to all friends ni 
the north. My wife joins me in com)ibments 
to Mrs. B. and famdy. 1 am ever, my dear 
cousni, yours sinceicly, K. B. 



NO. cr,xii. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

EU island, March 4t?t, 1789. 
Herk am I, my honoured friend, returned 
»»fe from the capital. To a man who has a 



home, however humble or remote — if that 
home is like mine, the scene of domestic 
comfort — the bustle of Edinburgh will soon 
be a business of sickening disgust. 

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate 
you 1 

When I must skulk into a corner, lest the 
rattling equipage of some gaping blockhead 
should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted 
to exclaim, "What merits has he had, or 
what demerit have I had, iu some state of 
pre-existence, that he is ushered into this 
state of being with the sceptre of rule, and 
the key of riches iu his puny fist, and 1 ara 
kicked into the world, the sport of folly, or 
the victim of pride?" I have read some- 
where of a monarch (in Spain I think it was) 
who was so out of humour with the Ptole- 
mean system of astronomy, that he said, had 
he been of the Creator's council, he coul i 
have saved him a great deal of labour and 
absurdity. I will not defend this blasphe- 
mous speech ; but often, as I have glided 
with humble stealth through the pomp of 
Princes' Street, it has suggested itself to me, 
as an improvement on the present human 
figure, that a man, in proportion to his own 
conceit of his consequence in the world, 
could have pushed out the longitude of his 
common size, as a snail pushes out his horns, 
or as we draw out a perspective. This 
trifling alteration, not to mention the pro- 
digious saving it would be in the tear and 
wear of the neck and limb-sinews of many 
of his Majesty's liege-subjects, in the way of 
tossing the head and tiptoe strutting, would 
evidently turn out a vast advantage, in 
enabling us at once to adjust the ceremonials 
in making a bow, or making way to a great 
man, and that, too, within a second of the 
precise spherical angle of reverence, or an 
inch of the particular point of respectful 
distance, which the important creature itself 
requires ; as a measuring-glance at its 
towering altitude wonld determine the affair 
like instinct. 

You are right, Madam, in your idea of 
poor Mylne's poem, which he has addressed 
to me. The piece has a good deal of merit, 
but it has one great fault — it is by far too 
long. Resides, my success has encouraged 
such a shoal of ill-spawned monsters to crawl 
into public notice, under the title of Scottish 
poets, ihat the very term Scottish poetry 
borilers on the bijrlesque. AN'hon I write to 
Mr. Carfrae, 1 shall advise him rather to try 
one of h.s deceased friend's Engli>li pieces. 
1 am p.rodigiously hurried with my owu 
mailers, else 1 would ba\e rmuested « 



341 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



pe'usal of all Mylne's poetic performances, 
and would have offered his friends my 
assistance, in either selecting or correcting 
what would be proper for the press. Mliat 
it is that occupies me so much, and perhaps 
a little oppresses my present spirits, shall 
fill up a paragraph in some future letter. In 
tlie meantime, allow me to close this epistle 
with a few hues done by a friend of mine. 
*****! give you them, that, as 
you have seen the original, you may guess 
whether one or two alterations I have ven- 
tured to make in them be any real improve- 
ment : — 

Like the fair plant that from our touch with- 
draws, 
Shrink, mildly fearful, even from applause. 
Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream. 
And all you are, my charming * * * * serm. 
Straight as the fox-glove, ere her bells dis- 
close. 
Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blows. 
Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind. 
Your form shall be the image of your mind ; 
Your manners shall so true your soul express, 
That all shall long to know the worth they 
guess ; [love, 

Congenial hearts shall greet with kindred 
Aud even sick'ning Envy must approve. 
R. B. 



NO. CLXIII. 



TO MR. 



-(85) 
March, 1789. 



My Dear Sir — The hurry of a farmer 
in this particular season, and the indolence of 
a poet at all times and seasons, wdl, I hope, 
plead my excuse for neglecting so long to 
answer your obliging letter of the 5th of 
August. 

That you have done well in quitting your 
laborious concern ia • * *, I do not 
doubt; the weighty reasons you mention, 
were, I hope, very, and deservedly indeed, 
weighty ones, aud your health is a matter of 
the last nnportance; but whether the re- 
maining proprietors of the paper have also 
done well, is what I much doubt. The 
• * * *, so far as I was a reader, exhi- 
bited such a brilliancy of point, such an 
ele^'ance of paragraph, and such a variety of 
intelliirence, that 1 can hardly conceive it 
possible to continue a daily paper in the same 
degree of excellence : but if there was a man, 
who had abilities equal to the task, that 
mail's assistance the proprietors have lost. 



When I received your letter I was transr. 
cribing for * * * * my letter to tht 
magistrates of the Canongate, Edinburgh, 
begging their permission to place a tomb- 
stone over poor Fergusson,and their edict in 
consequence of my petition, but now I shall 

send them to . Poor Fergusson ! If 

there be a life beyond the grave, which I 
trust there is ; and if there be a good God 
presiding over all nature, wliich I am sure 
there is^thou art now enjoying existence in 
a glorious world, where worth of the heart 
alone is distinction in the man; where riches, 
deprived of all their pleasure-purchasing 
powers, return to their native sordid matter; 
where titles and honours are the disregarded 
reveries of an idle dieain : and where that 
heavy virtue, which is the negative conse- 
quence of steady dulness, aud those thought- 
less, though often destructive follies, which 
are the unavoidable aberrations of frail 
human nature, will be thrown into equal 
oblinon as if they had never been ! 

Adieu, my dear Sir I So soon as your 
present views and schemes are concentered 
in an aim, I shall be glad to hear from you ; 
as your welfare and happiness are by no means 
indiffereut to, yours, R. B. 



NO. CLXIII. 

TO DR. MOORE. 
Ellislaiid. Mtrch 2Srd, 1789 
Sir — The gentleman who will deliver this 
is a Mr. Neilson, a worthy clergyman in ray 
neighbourhood (86), aud a very particular 
acquaintance of mine. As I have troubled 
him vrith this packet, I must turn him over 
to your goodness, to recompense him for it 
in a way in which he much needs your assist- 
ance, and where you can effectually serve 
him. Mr. Neilson is on his way for France, 
to wait on his Grace of Q,ueensbury, on some 
little business of a good deal of importance 
to him, and he wishes for jour instructions 
respectnig the most eligible mode of travel- 
ling, &c. for him, when he iias crossed the 
Channel. I should not have dared to take 
this liberty with you, but tluit I am told, by 
those who" have the honour of your personal 
acquaintance, that to be a poor honest 
Scotchman is a letter of recommendation to 
you, and that to have it in your power to 
serve such a character, gives you niuc.li 
pleasure. 



TO MR. HILL. 



345 



The enclosed Ode is a compliment to the 
memory of the late IMrs. Oswald of Au- 
chencruive. You probably knew her per- 
sonally, an lionour of wiiich I cannot 
boast; but I spent my early yea s in her 
neighbourhood, and among lier servants and 
tenants. I know that she was detested with 
the most heartfelt cordiality. However, 
in the particular part of her conduct which 
roused my poetic wrath, she was much less 
blameable. In January last, on my road to 
Ayrshire, I had put up at Bailie \Vhig;liani's, 
in Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn in the 
place. The frost was keen, and the grim 
evening- and howhng wind were ushering in 
a night of snow and drift. My horse and I 
were both much fatigued with the labours 
of the day, and just as my friend the Bailie 
and I were bidding defiance to the storm, 
over a smoking bo«l, in wheels the funeral 
pageantry of the late great Mrs. Oswald, 
and poor I am forced to brave all the hor- 
rors of the tempestuous night, and jade my 
horse, my young favourite horse, whom I 
had just christened Pegasus, twelve miles 
farther on, through the wildest moors and 
hills of Ayrshire, to New Cumnock, the 
next inn. The powers of poesy and prose 
sink under me, when I would describe what 
I felt. Suffice it to say, that when a good 
fire at New Cumnock had so far recovered 
my frozen sinews, I sat down and wrote the 
enclosed Ode. 

I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled 
finally with iMr. Creech ; and I must own, 
that at last he has been amicable and fair 
with me. 

R B. (87) 



TO MR. HILL. 

EUkland, April 2nd, 1789. 

I WILL make no excuse, my dear Biblio- 
polus, (God forgive me for murdering lan- 
g:uage!) that I have sat down to write you 
on this vile paper. 

It is economy. Sir; it is that cardinal 
virtue, prudence ; so I beg you wdl sit down, 
and either compose or borrow a panegyric. 
If you are going to borrow, apply to * * 
• * to compose, or rather to compound, 
something very clever on my remarkable 
frugality ; that I write to one of my most 
esteemed friends on this wretched paper, 
which was originally intended for the 
veuttl fist of some drunken exciseman, to 



take dirty notes m a miserable vatdt of an 
ale-cellar. 

Oh Frugality ! thou mother of ten thoti- 
saud blessings — thou cook of fat beef and 
dainty greens ! — thou manufiicturer of warm 
Shetland hose and comfortable surtouts! — 
thou old housewife, darning thy decayed 
stockings with tliy ancient spectacles on thy 
aged nose ! — lead me, hand me in thy 
clutching palsied fist, up those heiglits, and 
through those thickets, iutherto inaccessible 
and impervious to my anxious, weary feet — 
not those Parnassian crjigs, bleak and 
barren, where the hungry worshippers of 
fame are, breathless, clambering, hanging 
between heaven and hell, but those glittering 
cliffs of Potosi, where the all-surtlcient, all- 
powerful deity, wealth, holds his immediate 
court of joys and pleasures : where the 
sunny exposure of plenty, and the hot walls 
of profusion, produce those blissful fruits of 
luxury, exotics in this world, and natives of 
paradise 1 Thou withered sibyl, my sage 
conductress, usher me into thy refidgent, 
adored presence I The poet, splendid and 
potent as he now is, was once the puling 
nursling of thy faithful care and teiuler 
arras ! Call me thy son, thy cousin, thy, 
kinsman, or favourite, and adjure the god 
by the scenes of his infant years, no longer 
to repulse me as a stranger, or an alien, but 
to favour me with his peculiar countenance 
and protection ! He daily bestows his 
greatest kuidness on the undeserving and 
the worthless — assure him that I bring 
ample documents of meritorious demerits ! 
Pledge yourself for me, that for the glori- 
ous cause of lucre, I will do anything, be 
anything, but the horse-leach of pri- 
vate oppression, or the vulture of public 
robbery I 

But to descend from heroics. 

I want a Shakspeare ; I want likewise an 
Enghsh dictionary — Johnson's, I suppose, is 
best. In these and all my prose commissions, 
the cheapest is always the best for me. 
There is a small debt of honour that I owe 
Mr. Robert Cleghorn, in Saughton Mills, 
my worthy friend, and your well-wisher. 
Please give him, and urge him to take it, the 
first time you see him, ten shillings' worth of 
any thing you have to sell, and place it to 
my accotmt. 

The library scheme that I mentioned to 
you is already begun, under the direction of 
Captain Riddel. There is another in enui- 
lation of it going on at Closeburn, under the 
auspices of Mr. Monteafh of Closeburn, 
which will be on a greater scale than ours. 
Captain Riddel gave his infant society a great 



346 



CORllESPOXDENt'E OF BURXS. 



many of his old books, else I liad written you 
on that subject ; but, one of these days, I 
shall trouble you with a commission for 
"The Monkland Friendly Society." A 
copy of The Spectator, Mirror, and Louns^er, 
Man of Feeling, Man of the World, Guthrie's 
Geographical Grammar, witli some religious 
pieces, will likely be our first order. 

Whet: I grow richer, I will write to you 
on gilt-post, to make amends for this sheet. 
At present every guinea has a five guinea 
errand with, my dear Sir, your faithful, poor, 
but honest friend, E. Ji. 



NO. CLXVI. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

ElUsland, April Atli, 1789. 

I NO sooner hit on any poetic plan or 
fancy, but I wish to send it to you ; and if 
knowing and reading these give half the 
pleasure to you, that communicating them 
to you gives to me, I am satisfied. 

I have a poetic whim in my head, which I 
at present dedicate, or rather inscribe, to the 
Right. Hon. Charles James Fox ; but how 
long that fancy may hold, I cannot say. A 
few of the first lines I have just rough 
sketched as follows : — 

"SKETCH. 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite; 
How virtue and vice blend their black and 

their white ; 
How genius, the illustrious father of fiction. 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contra- 
diction — [bustle, 
I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should 
I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle. 

But now for a patron, whose name and 
whose glory. 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits. 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem 

mere lucky hits ; [so strong. 

With knowledge so vast, and with judgment 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far 

wrong ; [bright 

With passions so potent, and fancies s6 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite 

right ; 
A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses. 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses." 



On the 20th current I hope to have the 
honour of assuring you in person, how sin- 
cerely I am, yours, &c. R. B. 



NO. CLXVIl. 

TO MRS. M'.MURDO, 

DRUMLA.NU1G. (S8j 

ElUsland, May 2nd, 1789. 

Madam — I have finished the piece which 
had the happy fortune to be honoured with 
your approbation ; and never did little Miss 
with more sparkling pleasure show her ap- 
plauded sampler to partial Mamma, than I 
now send my poem to you and Mr. M'Murdo, 
if he is returned to Drumlanrig. You cannot 
easily imagine what tiiin-skinned animals, 
what sensitive plants, poor poets are. How 
do we shrink into the embittered corner of 
self-abasement, whenneglected or condemned 
by those to whom we look up ! and how do 
we, in erect importance, add another cubit to 
our stature, on being noticed and applauded 
by those whom we honour and respect ! My 
late visit to Drumlanrig has, I can tell you, 
Madam, given me a balloon waft up Parnas- 
sus, where on my fancied elevation I regard 
my poetic self with no small degree of com- 
placency. Surely, with all their sins, the 
rhyming tribe are not ungrateful creatures. 
I recollect your goodness to your humble 
guest — I see Mr. M'Murdo adding to the 
politeness of the gentleman the kindness of 
a friend, and my heart swells as it would 
burst, with warm emotions and ardent 
wishes ! It may be it is not gratitude — it 
may be a mixed sensation. 'I'liat strange, 
shifting, doubling animal, man, is so gene- 
rally, at best, but a negative, often a worth- 
less creature, that we cannot see real goodness 
and native worth, without feeling the bosom 
glow with sympathetic approbation. With 
every sentiment of grateful respect, I have 
the honour to be. Madam, your obliged and 
grateful humble servant, R. B 



NO. CLXVIl!. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

ElUsland, May Ath, 1789. 

My Dear Sir — Your duty-free favour ot 
the 26th April I received two days aico; I 



TO EICHARD BROWN. 



347 



will not say I perused it with pleasure — 
that IS tlie cold comphment of ceremony — I 
perused it. Sir, with delicious satisfaction ; 
in short, it is such a letter, that not you, nor 
your friend, but the lejcislature, by express 
proviso iu their postage laws, should frank. 
A letter informed with the soul of friendship 
is such an honour to human nature, tliat 
they should order it free ingress and egress 
to and from their bags and mails, as an en- 
couragement and mark of distinction to 
superemineut virtue. 

I have just put the last hand to a little 
poem, which I think will be something to 
your taste. One morning lately, as I was 
out pretty early iu the fields, sowing some 
grass seeds, I heard the burst of a shot from 
a neighbotinng plantation, and presently a 
poor little wounded hare came crippling by 
me. You will guess my indignation at the 
inhuman fellow who could shoot a hare at 
this season, when all of them have young 
ones. Indeed, there is something in that 
business, of destroying for our sport indi- 
viduals in the aniuial creation that do not 
injure us materially, which I could never 
reconcile to my ideas of virtue. 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye! 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field. 
The bitter little that of life remains ; 
No more the thickening brakes or verdant 
plains. 

To thee a home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled innocent, some wonted form; 
Tliat wonted form, alas I thy dying bed, 
Tlie sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy 
head, [warm. 

The cold earth with thy blood stain'd bosom 

Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its woe ; 

The playful pair crowd fondly by thy side ; 

Ah! helpless nurslings, who will now pro- 
That life a mother only can bestow ? [vide 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or had the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruthless wretch, and mourn 
thy hapless fate. 

Let me know how you like my poem. I 
un doubtful whether it would not be an im- 
provement to keep out the last stanza but 
one altogether. 

Cruikshank is a glorious production of the 
author of man. You, he, and the noble 



Colonel of the Crochallan Fenciblcs are to 
me — 

Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my 
heart. 

I have got a good mind to make verses on 
you all, to the tune of " Three guid Fellows 
ayout the Glen." K. li. (69) 



NO. CLXIX. 

TO MR. SAMUEL BROWN. 

Mossgiel, May itit, 1789. 

Dear Uncle — This, I hope, will find 
you and your conjugal yoke-fellow in your 
good old way ; 1 am impatient to kujw if 
the Ailsa fowling be commenced for this 
season yet, as I want three or four stones of 
feathers, and I hope you will bespeak them 
for me. It would be a vain attempt for me 
to enumerate the various transactions I have 
been engaged in since I saw you last, but 
this know, I am engaged in a siituij(/liH(f 
trade, and God knows if ever any poor man 
experienced better returns, two for one; 
but as freight and delivery have turned out 
so dear, I am thinking of taking out a 
licence and beginning in fair trade. I have 
taken a farm on the borders of the Nith, 
and, in imitation of the old patriarchs, get 
men-servants and maid-servants, and flocks 
and herds, and beget sons aud daughters 
Your obedient nephew, U. B. 



31 



TO RICHARD BROAAT^. 

Mauchline, May 1st, 1789. 

My De.\k Friend — I was in the country 
by accident, and hearing of your safe arrival, 
I could not resist the temptation of wishing 
you joy on your return — wishing you would 
write to me before you sail again— wishing 
you would always set me down as your 
bosom friend — wishing you long life and 
prosperity, and that every good thing may 
attend you — wishing jNIrs. Brown and your 
little ones as free of the evils of this 
worlil as is consistent with humanity — 
wishing you and she were to make two at 
the ensuing lying-in, with which Mrs. B. 
threatens very soon to favour nie — wishing 
I had longer time to write to you at 



iHb 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



f resL'nt ; and, finally, wishing that, if there 
is to be another state of existence, Mr. B., 
!Mrs. B., our little ones, and both families, 
and j'ou and I, in snug retreat, may make a 
jovial party to all eternity I 

My direction is at EUisland, near Dum- 
fries. Yours, H. B. 



NO. CLXXI. 



TO MR. JAMES HAMILTON. 

EUidnnd, May 26th, 1789. 

Dear Sir — I send you by .John Glover, 
carrier, the above account for Mr. TurubuU, 
as I suppose you know his address. 

I would fain offer, my dear Sir, a word of 
sympathy w ith your misfortunes : but it is 
a tender string, and I know not how to 
touch it. It is easy to flourish a set of 
high-flown sentiments on the subjects that 
would give great satisfaction to — a breast 
quite at ease; but as one observes who 
was very seldom mistaken in the theory of 
life, " The heart knoweth its own sorrows, 
and a stranger intermeddleth not there- 
with." 

Among some distressful emergencies tliat 
I have experienced in life, I ever laid this 
down as my foundation of comfort — 'r/iat he 
who has lired the life of an honest man, has 
hy no ineans liced in vain ! 

V^'ith every wish for your welfare and 
future success, I am, my dear Sir, sincerely 
yours, R. B. 



NO. CLXXII. 



TO WILLIAM CREECH, Esa 

KllisUind, May 30th, 1789. 

Stu — I had nitcnded to have troubled 
you wiih a long letter; but at pr«sent the 
delightful sensation of an omnipotent tooth- 
ache so engrosses all my inner man, as to put 
it nut of my power even to write nonsense. 
However, as in duty bound, I approach 
my bookseller with an offering in my hand 
— a few poetic clinches, and a song : — to 
expect any other kind of otfering from the 
rhyming tribe would be to know them much 
less than you do. I do not pretend that 
ihere is much merit in these morceaux, but 
1 have two reasons for sending them ; primo, 
they are mostly ill-natured, so are in unison 
with my present feelings, while fifty troops 



of infernal spirits are driving post from -"t 
to ear along my jaw-honts ; and, secif 
they are so short, that you cannot lea\< i 
in the middle, and so hurt my pride in i • 
idea that you found any work of mine i. ) 
heavy to get through. 

I have a request to beg of you, and I not 
only beg of you, but conjure you, by all 
your wishes and by all your hopes, that the 
muse will spare the satiric wink in the 
moment of your foibles ; that she will 
warble the song of rapture round your 
hymeneal couch ; and that she will shed on 
your turf the honest tear of elegiac grati- 
tude ! Grant my request as speedily as 
possible — send me by the very first fly or 
coach from this place, three copies of the 
la-t edition of my poems, which place to my 
account. 

Now may the good things of prose, and 
the good things of verse, come among thy 
hands, until they be filled with the good 
things of this life, prayeth R. B, 



NO. CLXXIIl. 

TO MR. M'AULEY, OF DUMBARTON, 

EUisland, June 4th, 1789. 

Dear Sir — Though I am not without 
my fears respecting my fate, at that grand, 
universal inquest of right and wTong, com- 
monly called The Last Day, yet 1 trust 
there is one sin, which that arch-vagabond, 
Satan, who I understand is to be king's evi- 
dence, cannot throw in my teeth, — 1 mean 
ingratitude. There is a certain pretty large 
quantum of kindness for which I remain, and 
from inability, I fear must still remain, your 
debtor; but though unable to repay the 
debt, I assure you. Sir, I shall ever warmly 
remember the obligation. It gives me the 
sincerest pleasure to hear by my old acquaint- 
ance, Mr. Kennedy, that you are. in immor- 
tal Allan's language, " Hale, and weel, and 
living ; " and that your charming family are 
well, and promising to be an amiable and 
respectable addition to the company of per- 
formers, whom the Great Manager of the 
Drama of Man is bringing into action for 
the succeeding age. 

AVith respect to my welfare, a subject in 
which you once warmly and effectively in- 
terested yourself, I am here in my old way, 
holding my plough, marking the growth of 
my corn, or the health of my dairy ; and at 
times sauntering by the delightful windings 



TO MR. M'5[UUD0. 



349 



of the Nith, on the marprin of which I have 
built my humble domicile, praying for sea- 
sonable weather, or holdinir an intrigue with 
the 'Muses, the only gipsies with whom I 
have now any intercourse. A3 I am entered 
into the holy state of matrimony, I trust my 
face is turned completely Zion-ward ; and 
as it is a rule with all honest fellows to 
repeat no grievances, I hope that the little 
poetic licences of former days will, of course, 
fall under the oblivious influence of some 
good natured statute of celestial prescription. 
In my family devotion, which, like a good 
Presbyterian, I occasionally give to my 
householil folks, I am extremely fond of the 
psalm, " I.et not the errors of my youth," 
&c., and that other, "I.o! children are God's 
heritage," &c., in which last Mrs. Burns, 
who, by the bye, has a glorious " wood-note 
wild " at either old song or psalmody, joins 
me with the pathos of Handel's Messiah. 
R. B. 



NO. CLXXIV. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

ElMand, June %th, 1789. 

My de.\r Friend — I am perfectly 
Bshamed of myself when I look at the date 
of your last. It is not that I forget the 
friend of my heart and the companion of my 
peregrinations ; but I have been condemned 
to drudgery beyond sufferance, though not, 
thank God, heyond redemption. I have had 
a collection of poems by a lady put into my 
hands to prepare them for the press ; which 
horrid task, with sowing corn with my own 
hand, a parcel of masons, wrights, plasterers, 
&c., to attend to, roaming on business 
through Ayrshire — all this was against me, 
and the very first dreadful article was of 
itself too much for me. 

13th. — I have not had a moment to spare 
from incessant toil since the Sth. Life, my 
dear Sir, is a serious matter. You know, 
by experience, that a man's individual self is 
a good deal, but believe me, a wife and 
a family of children, whenever you have the 
honour to be a husband and a father, will 
show you that your present and most 
anxious hours of solitude are spent on 
trifles. The welfare of those who are very 
I dear to us, whose only support )io|ie and 
stay we are — this, to a generous mind, is 
another sort of more important object of 
care than any concerns whatever which 
centre merely in the individual. Oa the 



other hand, let no young, unmarried, j akc- 
belly dog among you, make a song of bis 
pretended liberty and freedom from care 
If the relations we stand in to king, country, 
kindred, and friends, be any thing but the 
visionary fancies of dreaming metai)hy- 
sicians ; if religion, virtue, magnanimity, 
generosity, humanity, and justice, be ought 
but empty sounds ; then the man who may 
be said to live only for others, for the 
beloved, honourable female, whose tender 
faithful embraces endears life, and for the 
helpless little innocents who are to be the 
men and women, the worshippers of his God, 
the subjects of his king, and the support, nay 
the very vital existence, of his country, in 
the ensuing age — compare such a man with 
any fellow whatever, who, whether he bustle 
and push in business among labourers, 
clerks, statesmen ; or whether he roar and 
rant, and drink and sing in taverns — a 
fellow over whose grave no one will breathe 
a single heigh-ho, except from the cobweb-tie 
of what is called good fellowship — who has 
no view nor aim but what terminates in 
himself — if there be any grovelling earth- 
born wretch of our species, a renegade to 
common sense, who would fain believe that 
the noble creature man is no better than a 
sort of fungus, generated out of nothing, 
nobody knows how, and soon dissipating in 
nothing nobody knows where; such a stupid 
beast, such a crawling reptile, might balance 
the foregoing unexaggerated comparison, but 
no one else would have the patience. 

Forgive me, my dear Sir, for this long 
silence. To make you amends, I shall send 
you soon, and more encouraging still, 
without any postage, one or two rhymes of 
my later manufacture. II. B 



NO. CLXXV. 

TO MR. M'lMURDO. 

Ellkland, June Wth, 1789. 

Sir — A poet and a beggar are, in so many 
points of view, alike, that one might take 
tliem for the same individual character under 
different designations ; were it not that 
though, with a trifling poetic licence, most 
poets may be styled beggars, yet the con- 
verse of tlie proposition docs not hold, that 
every beggar is a poet. In one particular, 
however, they remarkably agree ; if you help 
either the one or the other to » mug of ale, 
or the picking of a bone, they will very wil- 
lingly repay you with a song. This occur* 



550 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



tit no at present, as I have just disjiatched a 
wdl-lined rib of John Kirkpa trick's High- 
lander — a bargain for which I am indebted 
to you, in the style of our ballad printers, 
"Five excellent new songs." The enclosed 
is nearly my newest song, and one that has 
cost me some pains, though that is but an 
equivocal mark of its excellence. Two or 
three others, which I have by me, shall do 
themselves the honour to wait on your after 
leisure: petitioners for admittance into favour, 
must not harass the condescension of their 
benefactor. 

You see, Sir, what it is to patronise a poet. 
*Tis like being a magistrate in a petty 
b trough ; you do them the favour to preside 
i II their council for one year, and your name 
bears the prefatory stigma of bailie for life. 

With, not the compliments, but the best 
wishes, the sincerest prayers of the season 
for you, that you may see many and happy 
years with Mrs. JI'Murdo, and your family ; 
wo blessings, by the bye, to which your 
iitiiK aoes not, by any means, entitle you — 
a loving wife and fine family being almost 
the only good things of this life to which 
the farm-house and cottage have an exclu- 
sive right. I have the honour to be, Sir, 
yniii much indebted and very humble ser- 
Ttnt, R. B. 



NO. CLXXVI. 

TO ]\IRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, Jane 2\st, 1789. 

Dear Madam — Will you take the effu- 
sions, the miserable effusions of low spirits, 
just as they flow from their bitter spring ? 
I know not of any particular cause for this 
worst of all my foes besettnig me ; but for 
some time my soul has been beclouded with 
a thickening atmosphere of evil imaginations 
and gloomy presages. 

Monday Evening. 

I have just heard Mr. Kirkpatrick preach 
a sermon. He is a man famous for his 
benevolence, and I revere him ; but, from 
such ideas of my Creator, good Lord, deliver 
me ! Religion, my honoured friend, is surely 
a simple business, as it equally concerns the 
Ignorant aud the learned, the poor and the 
rich. That there is an incomprehensible 
Ccreat Being, to whom I owe my existence, 
and that he must be intimately acquainted 
with the operations and progress of the in- 
ternal machinery, and consequent outward 



deportment of this creature which he has 
made — these are, [ think, self-evident propo- 
sitions. That there is a real and eternal 
distinction between virtue and vice, and con- 
sequently, that I am an accountable creature ; 
that from the seeming nature of the humaa 
mind, as well as from the evident imperfec- 
tion, nay, positive injustice, in the adminis- 
tration of affairs, both in the natural and 
moral worlds, there must be a retributive 
scene of existence beyond the grave— must, 
I think, be allowed by every one who will 
give himself a moment's reflection. I will 
go farther, and affirm, that from the sub- 
limity, excellence, and purity of his doctrine 
and precepts, unparalleled by all the aggre- 
gated wisdom and learning of many preceding 
ages, though, to appearance, he himself was 
the obscurest and most illiterate of our 
species — therefore Jesus Christ was from 
God. 

Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases 
the happiness of others, this is ray criterion 
of goodness ; and whatever injures society 
at large, or any individual in it, this is my 
measure of iniquity. 

What think you. Madam, of my creed? 
1 trust tliat I have said nothing that will 
lessen me in the eye of one whose good 
opinion I value almost next to the approba- 
tion of my own mind. R. B. 



NO. CLX.S.VU. 



TO MISS WILLIAMS. (90) 

Ellisland, 'in^. 

Madam — Of the many problems in the 
nature of that wonderful creature, man, this 
is one of the most extraordinary : — that he 
shall go on from day to day, from week to 
week, from month to month, or perhaps 
from year to year, suffering a hundred times 
more in an hour from the impotent consci- 
ousness of neglecting what he ought to do, 
than the very doing of it would cost him. I 
am deeply indebted to you, first, for a most 
elegant poetic compliment ; then, for a polite, 
obliging letter ; and, lastly, for your excellent 
poem on the slave-trade ; and yet, wretch 
that I am ! though tlie debts were debts of 
honour, and the creditor a lady, I have put 
off and put off even the very acknowledg- 
ment of the obligation, until you must indeed 
be the very angel I take you for, if you caa 
forgive me. 

Your poem I have read with the highe.s<i 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



351 



■ '-^iirc [ lia\e a way whenever I read a 
K ' mean a book in our own trade, 
1.1111, a poetic one — and wlien it is my 
• 11 [jroperty, that I take a pencd and mark 
' ' lie ends of verses, or note on margins and 
• • 1.1 paper, httle criticisms of approbation or 
disapprobation as I peruse along. I will 
make no apolojry for presenting you with a 
few unconnected thoughts that occurred to 
me in my repeated perusals of your poem. 
I want to siiow you that I have honesty 
enough to tell you what 1 take to be truths, 
even when they are not quite on the side of 
approbation ; and I do it in the firm faith 
that you have equal greatness of mind to 
hear tiiem with pleasure. 

I had lately the honour of a letter from 
Dr. Moore, where he tells me that he has 
sent me some books ; they are not yet come 
to hand, but I hear they are on the way. 

AVishing you all success in your progress 
in the path of fame, and tliat you may 
equally escape the danger of stumbling 
through incautious speed, or losing ground 
through loitering neglect. R. B. (91) 



NO. CLXXVIII. 



TO MR. JOHN LOGAN. (92) 
EUisland, near Dumfries, Aug. Tth, 1789. 

Dear Sir — I intended to have written 
you long ere now, and, as I told you, 1 had 
gotten three stanzas and a half on my way 
in a poetic epistle to you ; but that old 
enemy of all (jood works, the devil, threw me 
into a prosaic mire, and for the soul of me I 
cannot get out of it. I dare not write you 
a long letter, as I am going to intrude on 
your time with a long ballad. I have, as you 
will shortly see, finished "The Kirk's Alarm;" 
but now that it is done, and I have laughed 
once or twice at the conceits in some of tJie 
stanzas, I am determined not to let it get 
into the public ; so I send you this copy, 
the first I have sent to Ayrshire, except some 
few of the stanzas, which I wrote otf iu 
embryo, for Gavin Hamilton, under the 
express provision and request that you will 
only read it to a few of us, and do not oii 
any account give, or permit to be taken, any 
copy of the ballad. If I could be of any 
service to Ur. M'Gill, I would do it, though 
it should be at a much greater expense than 
irritating a few bigoted priests; but I am 
afraid servnig him in his present embarras is 
a task too hard for me. 1 have enemies 
enow, God knows, though I do not wantonly i 

31 



add to the number. Still, as I think there ia 
some merit in two or three of the thoughts, 
I send it to you as a small, but sincere 
testimony how much, and with what respect- 
ful esteem, I am, dear Sir, your obliged 
humble servant, K.. B. 



NO. CLXXIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

EUisland, Sept. 6t/i, 1789. 

De.\r Madam — I have mentioned in my 
last, my appointment to the E.vcise, and the 
birth of little Frank ; who, by the bye, I 
trust will be no discredit to the honourable 
name of Wallace, as he has a fine manly 
countenance, and a figure that might do 
credit to a little fellow two months older ; 
and likewise an excellent good temper, though 
when he pleases he has a pipe, only not 
quite so loud as the horn that his immortal 
namesake blew, as a signal to take out the 
pin of Stirling bridge. 

1 had some time ago an epistle, part 
poetic and part prosaic, from your poetess, 
Mrs. J. Little, a very ingenious, but modest 
composition. I should have written her as 
she requested, but for the hurry of this new 
business. 1 have heard of her and her com- 
positions in this country ; and, I am happy 
to add, always to the honour of her cli;iracter. 
The fact is, I know not well how to write to 
her ; I should sit down to a sheet of paper 
that I knew not how to stain. 1 am no dab 
at fine-drawn letter-writing ; apd, except 
when prompted by friendship or gratitude, 
or, which happens extremely rarely, inspired 
by the muse (I know not her name) that 
presides over epistolary writing, I sit down, 
when necessitated to write, as I would sit 
down to beat hemp. 

Some parts of your letter of the 20th 
August, struck me with the most melan- 
choly concern for the state of your mind at 
present. 

Would I could write you a letter of com- 
fort, I would sit down to it with as niiich 
pleasure as I would to write an epic poem of 
my own composition, that should equal the 
Iliad. Religion, my dear friend, is the true 
comfort ! A strong persuasion in a future 
state of existence ; a proposition so obviously 
probable, that, setting revelation aside, eiery 
nation and people, so far as investigation li.is 
reached, for at least near four tlionsaml 
years, have, in some mode or other, firmly 
believed it. In vahi would we reason lu-il 
* 



352 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



pretend to doubt. I have myself done so to 
a very daring pitch ; but when I reflected 
that 1 was opposing the most ardent wishes, 
and the most darhng hopes of good men, 
and flying in the face of all human belie'f, in 
all ages, 1 was shocked at my own conduct. 

1 know not whether I have ever sent you 
the following lines, or if you have ever seen 
them ; but it is one of my favourite quota- 
tions, which I keep constantly by me in my 
progress through life, in the language of the 
b.juk of Job: — 

Against the day of battle and of war — 

spoken of religion : — 

"'Tis this.my friend, that streaks our morning 

bright, 
Tis this that gilds the horror of our night. 
When wealth forsakes us, and when friends 

are few ; 
When friends are faithless, or when foes 

pursue : 
Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the 

smart. 
Disarms artliction, or repels his dart ; 
Within the breast bids purest raptures rise. 
Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless 

skies " 

I have been busy with Zeluco. The 
doctor is so obliging as to request my opinion 
of it ; and I have been revolving in my mind 
Borne kin I of criticisms on novel-writing, but 
it is a depth beyond ray research. I shall, 
however, digest my thoughts on the subject 
as well as I can. Zeluco is a most sterling 
performance. 

Farewell 1 A Dieu, le bon Dieu, je vous 
eommvndel 



NO. CLXXX. 

TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, CAESE. 
Ellisland, Oct. IGth, 1789. 

Sir— Big with the idea of this important 
day at Friars Carse, I have watched the 
elements and skies in the tull persuasion 
that they would armounce it to the astonished 
world by some phenomena of terrific portent. 
Yesternight until a very late hour did I wait 
With anxious horror for the appearance of some 
comet tiring half the sky; or aerial armies of 
sanguinary Scandinavians, darting athwart 
the startled heavens, rapid as the ragged 
lightning, and horrid as those convulsions of 
uature that bury nations. 

The elements, however, seem to take the 



matter very quietly; they did not even usher 
in this morning with triple suns and a 
shower of blood, symbolical of the three 
potent heroes, and the mighty claret-shed of 
the day. For me, as Thomson in his 
^Vinter says of the storm — I shall " Hear 
astonished, and astonished sing " 

The whistle and the man ; I sing 
The man that won the whistle, &c. 

Here are we met, three merry boys. 
Three merry boys, 1 trow, are we ; 

And mony a night we've merry been. 
And mony mae we hope to be. 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 

A cuckold coward loiin is he : 
Wha last beside his chair shall fa'. 

He is the king amang us three. 

To leave the heights of Parnassus, and 
come to the humble vale of prose. I have 
some misgivings that I take too much upon 
me, when I request you to get your guest. 
Sir Robert Lawrie, to frank the two enclosed 
covers for me, the one of them to Sir 
William Cunningham, of Robertland, Bar*' 
at Kilmarnock — the other, to Mr. Allan 
Masterton, Writing-AIaster, Edhiburgh. The 
first has a kindred claim on Sir Robert, as 
being a brother baronet, and likewise a keen 
Foxite : the other is one of the worthiest 
men in the world, and a man of real genius ! 
so, allow me to say, he has a fraternal claim 
on you. I want them franked for to-morrow, 
as I cannot get them to the post to-night. 
I shall send a servant again for them in the 
evening. Wishing that your head may be 
crowned with laurels to-night, and free from 
aches to-morrow, I have the honour to be, 
Sir, your deeply indebted humble servant, 
E. B. 



NO. CLXXXI. 

TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL. 

Ellisland, 1789. 

Sir — I wish from my inmost soul it were 
in my power to give you a more substantial 
gratification and return for all the goodness 
to the poet, than transcribing a few of his 
idle rhymes. However, " an old song," 
though to a proverb an instance of insignifi- 
cance, is generally the only coin a poet has 
to pay with. 

If my poems which I have transcribed, and 
mean still to transcribe, into your book, were 
equal to the grateful respect and high esteem 



TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. 



353 



1 bear for the gentleman to whom I prest nt 
them, they would be the finest poems in the 
language. As they are, they will at least 
be a testimony with what sincerity I have 
the honour to be, Sir, your devoted humble 
servant, R. B 



NO. CLXXXH. 



TO MR. ROBERT AINSLTE. 

Ellialand, Nov. \st, 1789. 

My Dear Friend — I had written you 
long ere now, could I have guessed where to 
find you, for I am sure you have more good 
sense than to waste the precious days of 
vacation time in the dirt of business and 
Edinburgh. "Wherever you are, God bless 
you, and lead you not into temptation, but 
deliver you from evil ! 

I do not know if I have informed you that 
I am now appointed to an Excise division, 
in the middle of which my house and farm 
lie. In this I was extremely lucky. "Without 
ever having been an expectant, as they call 
their jounieyinen excisemen, I was directly 
planted down to all intents and purposes an 
officer of Excise, there to flourish and bring 
forth fruits — worthy of repentance. 

I know not how the word exciseman, i>r 
still more opprobrious, ganger, will sound in 
your ears. 1, too, have seen the day when 
my auditory nerves would have felt very 
delicately on this subject ; but a wife and 
children are things which have a wonderful 
power in blunting these kind of sensations. 
Fifty pounds a-year for life, and a provision 
for willows and orphans, you will allow is no 
bad settlement for a poet. For the ignominy 
of the profession, I have the encouragement 
which I once heard a recruiting sergeant 
give to a numerous, if not a respectable 
audience, in the streets of Kilmarnock : — 
"Gentlemen, for your further and better 
encouragement, I can assure you that our 
regiment is the most blackguard corps under 
the crown, and consequently with us an 
honest fellow has the surest chance of pre- 
ferment." 

You need not doubt that I find several 
very uniileasant and disagreeable circum- 
stances in my business ; but I am tired with 
and disgusted at the language of complaint 
against the evils of life. Human existence, 
in the most favourable situations, does not 
abound with pleasures, and has its incon- 
reniences and ills ; capricious foolish man 
mistakes these inconveniences and ills as if 
▲ A 



they were the peculiar property of his parti- 
cular situation ; and hence that eternal 
fickleness, that love of change, which has 
ruined, and daily does ruin, many a fine 
fellow, as well as many a blockhead, and is 
almost without exception a constant source 
of disappointment and misery. 

I long to hear from you how you go on — 
not so much in business as in life. Are you 
pretty well satisfied with your own exertions, 
and tolerably at ease in your internal re- 
flections? 'Tis much to be a great character 
as a lawyer, but beyond comparison more to 
be a great character as a man. That you 
may be both the one and the other is the 
earnest wish, and that you will be both ia 
the firm persuasion of, my dear Sir, &c. 

R. D. 



NO. CLXXXIIl. 

TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. 

Ellisland, Novemler -ith, 1789. 

I HAVE been so hurried, my ever dear 
friend, that though I got both your letters, 
I have not been able to command an 
hour to answer them as I wished ; and even 
now, you are to look on this as merely con- 
fessing debt, and craving days. Few things 
could have given me so much pleas\ire as 
the news that you were once more safe and 
sound on terra firma, and happy in that place 
where happiness is alone to be foimd — in the 
fireside circle. ]\Iay the benevolent Director 
of all things peculiarly bless you in all those 
endearing connections consequent on the 
tender and venerable names of husband and 
father I I have indeed been extremely 
lucky in getting an additional income of 
£50 a-year, while at the same time, the 
appointment will not cost me above £10 or 
£12 per annum of expenses more than I 
must have inevitably incurred. The worst 
circumstance is, that the Excise division 
which I have got is so extensive, no less 
than ten parishes to ride over ; and it 
abounds besides with so much business, that 
I can scarcely steal a spare moment. How- 
ever, labour endears rest, and both together 
are absolutely necessary for the proper en- 
joyment of human existence. I cannot 
meet you anywhere. No less than an 
order from the board of Excise, at Edin- 
burgh, is necessary before I can have so 
much time as to meet you in Ayrshire. 
But do you come, and see me. We must 
have a social day, and perhaps lengthen it 



354 



CORRESP0NDE>fCE OF BURNS. 



out with half the night, before you go again 
to sea. You are the earliest friend I now 
have on earth, my brothers excepted ; and 
is not that an endearing circumstance ? 
Wlien you and I first met, we were at the 
green period of human life. The twig 
would easily take a bent, but would as 
easily return to its former state. You and 
I not only took a mutual bent, but, by the 
melancholy, though strong influence of 
being both of the family of the unfortunate, 
we were entwined with one another in our 
growth towards advanced age : and blasted 
be the sacrilegious hand that should at- 
tempt to undo the union ! You and I must 
have one bumper to our favourite toast, 
" May the companions of our youth be the 
friends of our old age 1 " Come and see me 
one year ; I shall see you at Port-Glasgoiv 
the next ; and if we can contrive to have a 
gossiping between our two bed-fellows, it 
will be so much additional pleasure. Mrs. 
Burns joins rae in kind compUments to you 
and Mrs. Brown. Adieu ! 1 am ever, my 
dear Sir, yours, R. B. 



NO. CLXXXIV. 

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq. 

OF FINTRY. 

December 9th, 17S9. 

Sir — I have a good while had a wish to 
trouble you with a letter, and had certainly 
done it long ere now — but for a humiliating 
something that throws cold water on the 
resolution, as if one should say, " You have 
found Mr. Graham a very powerful and kind 
friend indeed, and that interest he is so 
kindly taking in your concerns you ought, 
by every thing in your power, to keep alive 
and cherish." Now, though since God has 
thought proper to make one powerful and 
another powerless, the connection of 
obliger and obliged is all fair ; and though 
my being under your patronage is higlily 
honourable, yet. Sir, allow me to flatter my- 
self, that, as a poet and an honest man, 
you first interested yourself in my welfare, 
and principally as such, still you permit me 
to approach you. 

I have found the Excise business go on a 
great deal smoother with me than ] ex- 
pected, owing a good deal to the generous 
friendship of Mr. Mitchel, my collector, and 
the kind assistance of Jlr. Findlater, my 
supervisor. I dare to be honest, and I fear 



no labour. Nor do I find my hurried lifb 
greatly inimical to my correspondence with . 
the Muses. Their visits to me, indeed, and 
I believe to most of their acquaintance, like 
the visits of good angels, are short and far 
between ; but I meet them now and then as 
I jog through the hills of Nithsdale, just as 
I used to do on the banks of Ayr. I take 
the liberty to enclose you a few bagatelles, 
all of them the productions of my leisure 
thoughts in my Excise rides. 
I If you know or have ever seen Captain 
I Grose, the antiquary, you will enter into 
' any humour that is in the verses on him. 
' Perhaps you have seen them before, as I 
. sent them to a London newspaper. Though 
I I dare say you have none cf the soleran- 
i league-and-covenant fire, which shone so 
I conspicuous in Lord George Gordon, and 
the Kilmarnock weavers, yet I think you 
must have heard of Dr. M'Gill, one of the 
clergymen of Ayr, and his heretical book. 
God help him, poor man ! Though he is 
one of the worthiest, as well as one of the 
ablest, of the whole priesthood of the Kirk 
of Scotland, in every sense of that ambigu- 
ous term, yet the poor Doctor and his 
numerous family are in iminent danger of 
being thrown out to the mercy of the 
winter-winds. The enclosed ballad on that 
business is, I confess, too local, but 1 h\nghed 
myself at some conceits in it, thougli I am 
convinced in my conscience that there are a 
good many heavy stanzas in it too. 

The election ballad, as you will see, alludes 
to the present canvass in our string of 
boroughs. I do not believe there will be 
such a hard run match in the whole general 
election. 

« « • * 

I am too little a man to have any political 
attachments ; I am deeply indebted to, and 
have the warmest veneration for, individuals 
of both parties : but a man who has it in 
his power to be the father of a country, and 
who * * * * *^ (93) is a character that one 
cinnot speak of with patience. 

Sir J. J. does "what man can do," but 
yet I doubt his fate. R. B. 



NO. CLXXXV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, December 13/ A, 1789. 

Many thanks, my dear Madam, for your 
sheetful of rhymes. Though at present I 



TO LADY CONSTABLE. 



3-5.5 



am below the veriest prose, yet from you 
^every thing pleases. I am groaning under 
the miseries of a diseased nervous system — 
a system, the state of which is most con- 
ducive to our happiness, or the most pro- 
ductive of our misery. For now near three 
weeks I have been so ill with a nervous 
headache, that I have been obliged for a 
time to give up my Excise-books, being 
scarce able to lift my head, much less to 
ride once a-week over ten muir parishes. 
What is man ? To day, iu the luxuriance 
of health, exulting in the enjoyment of 
existence ; in a fesv days, perhaps in a few 
hours, loaded with conscious painful being, 
counting the tardy pace of the lingering i 
moments by the repercussions of anguish, 
and refusing or denying a comforter. Day 
follows night, and night comes after day, 
only to curse him with life which gives him 
no pleasure ; and yet the awful, dark ter- 
mination of that life is something at which 
he recoils. 

Tell us, j'e dead ; will none of you in pity 

Disclose the secret 

fVliat 'tis you are, and we must shortly be ? 

'tis no matter : 

A little time will make us learn'd as you are. 

Can it be possible, that when I resign this 
frail, feverish being, I shall still fiud myself 
in conscious existence ? When the last 
gasp of agony has announced that I am no 
more to those that knew me, and the few 
who loved me ; when the cold, stiffened, 
unconscious, ghastly corse is resigned into 
the earth, to be the prey of unsightly rep- 
tiles, and to become in time a trodden clod, 
shall I be yet warm in life, seeing and seen, 
enjoying and enjoyed ? Ye venerable sages, 
and holy flamens, is there probability in 
your conjectures, truth in your stories, of 
another world beyond death ; or are they all 
alike baseless visions, and fabricated fables ? 
If there is another life, it must be only for 
the just, the benevolent, the amiable, and 
the humane ; what a flattering idea then is 
a world to come ! Would to God I as 
firmly believed it as I ardently wish it ! 
There, I should meet an aged parent, now at 
rest from the many buffetings of an evil 
world, against which he so long and so 
bravely struggled. There should 1 meet the 
friend, the disinterested friend of my early 
life ; -the man who rejoiced to see me, 
because he loved me and could serve me. 
Muir, thy weakness were the aberrations of 
human nature, but thy heart glowed with 
every thing generous, manly, and noble ; 
»nd if emanation from the All-good Beiug 



animated a human frame, it was thine! 
There should I, with speechless agony of 
rapture, again recognize my lost, my ever 
dear Mary ! whose bosom was fraught with 
truth, honour, constancy, and love. 

My Mary, dear departed shade ? 

Where is thy place of heavenly rest? 

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his 
breast ? 

Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of characters! 
I trust thou art no impostor, and that thy 
revelation of blissful scenes of existence 
beyond death and the grave, is not one of 
the many impositions which time after time 
have been palmed on credulous mankind. 
I trust that in thee " shall all the families of 
the earth be blessed," by being yet con- 
nected together in a better world, where 
every tie that bound heart to heart, in this 
state of existence, shall be, far beyond our 
present conceptions, more endearing. 

I am a good deal inclined to think with 
those who maintain, that what are called 
nervous affections are in fact diseases of the 
mind. I cannot reason, I camiot think; 
and but to you I would not venture to 
write any thing above an order to a cobbler. 
You have felt too much of the ills of life not 
to sympathise with a diseased wretch, who 
has impaired more than half of any faculties 
he possessed. Your goodness will excuse 
this distracted scrawl, which the writer dare 
scarcely read, and which he would throw 
into the fire, were he able to write any 
thing better, or indeed any thing at all. 

Rumour told me something of a sou of 
yours, who was returned from the East or 
West Indies. If you have gotten news 
from James or Anthony, it was cruel in you 
not to let me know ; as I promised you, on 
the sincerity of a man, who is weary of one 
world, and anxious about anotlier, that 
scarce any thing could give me so much 
pleasure as to hear of any good thing be- 
falling my honoured friend. 

If you have a minute's leisure, take up 
your pen in pity to le pauvre miserable, 

R. B. 



NO. CLXXXVI. 

TO LADY WINIFRED MAXWELL 
CONSTABLE. (94) 

Ellisland, December 16th. 178a 

My IiA.DY — In vain I liave,from day to day, 
expected to hear from Mrs. Y'ouiig, as she 



?.r)6 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



l)romisecl me at Dalswinton that slie would 
do me the honour to introduce me at 
Timvald ; and it was impossible, not from 
your ladyship's accessibility, but from my 
own feelings, that I could go alone. Lately, 
indeed, Mr. Maxwell of Carruchen, in his 
usual goodness, offered to accompany me, 
when an unlucky indisposition on my part 
hindered my embracing the opportunity. 
To court the notice or the tables of the 
great, except where I sometimes have had 
a little matter to ask of them, or, more often, 
the pleasanter task of witnessing my grati- 
tude to tlv.^m, is what I never have done, 
lud I trust never shall do. But with your 
Udyship I have the honour to be connected 
l.y one of the strongest and most endearing 
I .'3 in tlie whole moral world. Common suf- 
(rrers, in a cause where even to be unfortu- 
nate is glorious, the cause of heroic loyalty ! 
I hough my fathers had not illustrious 
tiijiiours and vast properties to hazard in the 
dintest, though they left their humble 
c ittages only to add so many units more to 
I he uni oted crowd that followed their 
li-aders, yet what they could they did, and 
w liat they had they lost : with unshaken 
tir'nness, and unconcealed political attach- 
ments, they shook hands with ruin for what 
iliey esteemed the cause of their king and 
ilieir country. This language and the en- 
closed verses (95) are for your ladyship's 
eve alone. Poets are not very famous for 
tlieir prudence ; but as I can do nothmg for 
a cause which is now nearly no more, I do 
not wish to hurt myself. I have the honour 
to be, my lady, your ladyship's obliged and 
obedient humble servant, £.. B. 



NO. CLXXXVIl. 

TO PROVOST MAXWEUU 

OF LOCHMABEN. 

Ellisland, December 2Qth, 1789. 

Dear Provost — As my friend, Mr. 
Graham, goes for your good town to- morrow, 
I cannot resist the temptation to send you 
a few lines, and, as I have nothing to say, I 
have cliosen this sheet of foolscap, and 
begun, as you see, at the top of the first 
page, because I have ever observed, that 
when once people have fairly set out, they 
know not where to stop. Now that ray first 
sentence is concluded, I have nothing to do 
but to pray Heaven to help me on to 
another. Shall I write you on politics or 
religion, two master subjects for your sayera 



of nothing ? Of the first, I dare say by this 
time you are nearly surfeited (96) ; and for 
the last, whatever they may talk of it, who ' 
make it a kind of company concern, I never 
could endure it beyond a soliloquy. I might 
write you on farming, on building, on mar- 
keting; but my poor distracted mind is so 
torn, so jaded, so racked and bedeviled with 
the task of the superlatively damned to 
make one guinea do the business of three, 
that I detest, abhor, and swoon, at the very 
word business, though no less than four 
letters of my very short surname are in it. 

W^ell, to make the matter short, I shall 
betake myself to a subject ever fruitful of 
themes — a subject the turtle feast of the 
sons of Satan, and the delicious secret sugar 
plum of the babes of grace — a subject 
sparkling with all the jewels that wit can 
find in the mines of genius, and pregnant 
wjth all the stores of learning from Moses 
and Confucius to Franklin and Priestley — 
in short, may it please your lordship, I 
intend to write • ♦ * 

[TZere the poet inserted a song.'] 

If at any time you expect a field-day in 
your town, a day when dukes, earls, and 
knights, pay their court to weavers, tailors, 
ami cobblers, I should like to know of it two 
or three days before-hand. It is not that I 
care three skips of a cur dog for the politics, 
but I should like to see such an exhibition 
of human nature. If you meet with that 
worthy old veteran in religion and good 
fellowship, Mr. Jeffrey, or any of his amiable 
family (97), I beg you will give them my 
best compliments. R. B. 



NO. CLXXXVIII. 

TO MR. SUTHERLAND, PLAYER^ 

ENCLOSING A PfeOLOGUE. 

Monday Morning. 
I WAS much disappointed, my dear Sin 
in wanting your most agreeable company 
yesterday. However, I heartily pray for 
good weather next Sunday ; and whatever 
aerial Being has the guidance of the ele- 
ments, may take any other half dozen o/ i 
Sundays he pleases, and clothe them ^iih 
Vapours, and clouds, and storms. 
Until he terrify himself 
At combustion of his own raising. 
I shall see you on Wednesday forenooa 
In the greatest hurry, R. B. 



n 



TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 



357 



NO. CLXXXIX. 

TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 

1790. 

Sir — The followin.^ circumstance lias, I 
believe, been omitted in the statistical ac- 
count, transmitted to you, of the parish of 
Dunscore, in Nithsdale. I beg leave to send 
it to you, because it is new, and may be 
useful. How far it is deserving of a place 
in your patriotic publication, you are the 
best judge. 

To store the minds of the lower classes 
with useful knowledge, is certainly of very 
great importance, both to them as indi- 
viduals, and to society at large. Giving 
them a turn for reading and reflection, is 
giving them a source of innocent and lau- 
dable amusement, and, besides, raises them 
to a more dignified degree in the scale of 
rationality. Impressed with this idea, a 
gentleman in this parish, Robert Riddel, Esq., 
of Glenriddel, set on foot a species of circu- 
lating library, on a plan so simple, as to be 
practicable in any corner of the country ; 
and so useful, as to deserve the notice of 
every country gentleman, who thinks the 
improvement of that part of his own species, 
whom chance has thrown into the humble 
walks of the peasant and the artizan, a 
matter worthy of his attention. 

Mr. Riddel got a number of his own 
tenants, and farming neighbours, to form 
themselves into a society for the purpose of 
having a library among themselves. They 
entered into a legal engagement to abide by 
it for three years ; with a saving clause or 
two, in case of removal to a distance, or of 
death. Each member, at his entry, paid five 
shillings ; and at each of their meetings, 
which were held every fourth Saturday, six- 
pence more. With their entry-money, and 
the credit which they took on the faith of 
their future funds, they laid m a tolerable 
stock of books at the commencement. What 
authors they were to purchase, was always 
decided by the majority. At every meeting, 
all the books, under certain fines and for- 
feitures, by way of penalty, were to be pro- 
duced ; and the members had their choice of 
the volumes in rotation, lie whose name 
stood for that night first on the list, had his 
choice of what volume he pleased in the 
whole collection ; the second had his choice 
after the first ; the third after the second ; 
and so on to the last. At next meeting, he 
who had been first on the list at the pre- 
ceding meeting, was last at this; he who 
had been second was first ; and so on 
through the whole three years. At the ex- 



piration of the engagement, the books were 
sold by auction, but only among the mem- 
bers themselves; and each man had his 
share of the common stock, in money or in 
books, as he chose to be a purchaser or not. 

At the breaking up of this little society, 
which was formed under Mr. Riddel's 
patronage, what with benefactions of books 
from him, and what with their own pur- 
chases, they had collected together upwards 
of one hundred and fifty volumes. It will 
easily be guessed that a good deal of trash 
would be bouicht. Among the books, how- 
ever, of this little library, were — Blair's Ser- 
mons, Robertson's History of Scotland, 
Hume's History of the Stuarts, The Spec- 
tator, Idler, Adventurer, Mirror, Lounger, 
Observer, Man of Feeling, Jlan of the 
World, Chrysal, Don Q.uixote, Joseph 
Andrews, &c. A peasant who can read, 
and enjoy such books, is certainly a much 
superior being to his neighbour who, perhaps, 
stalks beside his team, very little removed, 
except in shape, from the brutes he drives. 

Wishing your patriotic exertions their so 
much merited success, I am. Sir, your hum- 
ble servant, A Peasant (98J. 



>o. cxc. 
TO MR. GiJbtiERT BURNS. 
Ellisland, January Wtk, 1790. 

Dear Brother — I mean to take advan- 
tage of the frank, though I have not in my 
present frame of mind much appetite for 
exertion in \vriting. My nerves are in a 
state. I feel that horrid hypo- 
chondria pervading every atom of both body 
and soul. This farm has undone my enjoy- 
ment of myself. It is a ruinous alfair on all 

hands. But let it go to ! I'll fight 

it out, and be off with it. 

We have gotten a set of very decent 
players here just now. I have seen tliem 
an evening or two. David Campbell, in 
Ayr, wTote to me by the manager of the 
company, a Mr. Sutherland, who is a man 
of apparent worth. On New-yearday even- 
ing I gave him the following prologue, which 
he spouted to his audience with applause : — 
" No song nor dance I bring from yon great 

city," &c. 

I can no more. K once I was clear of 
this damned farm, I should respire more at 
ease. 



359 



CORRESPONDEXCE OF BURNS. 



TO WILLIAM DUNBAR, W. S. 

Ellisland, January \Uh, 1790. 

Since we are here creatures of a day, 
since "a few summer days, and a few winter 
nia;hts, and the life of man is at an end," 
wliy, my dear much-esteemed Sir, should 
you and I let neglijfent indolence — for I 
know it is nothin<j worse — step in between 
us, anil bar the enjoyment of a mutual cor- 
respondence? We are not shapen out of 
the common, heavy, methodical clod, the 
elemental stuff of the plodding selfish race, 
the sons of Arithmetic and Prudence ; our 
feelings and hearts are not benumbed and 
poisoned by the cursed influence of riches, 
wliich, whatever blessing they may be in 
other respects, are no friends to the nobler 
qualities of the heart : in the name of 
random sensibility, then, let never the moon 
change on our silence any more. I have 
had a tract of bad health most part of this 
winter, else you had heard from me long 
ere now. Thank Heaven, I am now got so 
much better as to be able to partake a little 
iu tlie enjoyments of life. 

Our friend, Cunningham, will perhaps 
nave told you of my going into the Excise. 
The truth is, I found it a very convenient 
b-usiness to have £50 per annum, nor have I 
yet felt any of these mortifying circum- 
stances in it that 1 was led to fear. 

Feb. 2nd. — I have not, for sheer hurry of 
business, been able to spare five minutes to 
finish my letter. Besides my farm business, 
1 ride on my E.tcise matters at least 200 
miles every week. 1 have not by any means 
given up the Muses. You will see in the 
3rd vol. of Johnson's Scots songs that I 
have contributed ray mite there. 

But, my dear Sir, little ones that look up 
to you for paternal protection are an im- 
portant charge. I have already two fine 
liealthy stout little fellows, and I wish to 
throw some light upon them. I have a 
thousand reveries and schemes about them, 
and their future destiny. Not that I am a 
Utopian projector in these things. I am 
resolved never to breed up a son of mine to 
any of the learned professions. I know the 
value of independence , and since I cannot 
give my sons an independent fortune, I shall 
give them an independent line of life. What 
a cliaos of hurry, chance, and changes is this 
\7or!il, when one sits soberly down to reflect 
on it ! To a father, who himself knows the 
world, the thought that he shall have sons 
to usher mto it must fill him with dread; 



Ij ic if ha have daughters, the prospect in a 
thoughtful moment i? apt to shock him. 

I hope Jlrs. Fordyce and the two young 
ladies are well. Do let rae forget that they 
are nieces of yours, and let me say that I 
never saw a more interesting, sweeter pair 
of sisters in my life. I am the fool of my 
feelings and attachments. I often take up a 
volume of my Spenser to realise you to my 
imagination (99), and think over the social 
scenes we have had together. God grant 
that there may be another world more con- 
genial to honest fellows beyond, this. A 
world where these rubs and plagues of 
absence, distance, misfortunes, ill-health, 
&c., shall no more damp hilarity and divide 
friendship. This I know is your throng 
season, but half a page will much oblige, 
my dear Sir, yours sincerely, K^ B. 



NO. CXCII. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Ellisland, January 25th, 1790. 

It has been owing to unremitting hurry of 
business that I have not written to you. 
Madam, long ere now. My health is greatly 
better, and I now begin once more to share 
in satisfaction and enjoyment with the rest 
of my fellow-creatures. 

Many thanks, my much-esteemed friend, 
for your kind letters; but why will you make 
me run the risk of being contemptible and 
mercenary in my own eyes? When I pique 
myself on my independent spirit, I hope it 
is neither poetic licence, nor poetic rant : 
and I am so flattered with the honour you 
have done me, in making rae your compeer 
in friendship and friendly correspondence, 
that I cannot, without pain, and a degree of 
mortilication, be reminded of the real ine- 
quality between our situations. 

Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear 
Madam, in the good news of Anthony. Not 
only your anxiety about his fate, but my 
own esteem for such a noble, warm-hearted, 
m:inly young fellow, in the little I had of hia 
acquaintance, has interested me deeply in his 
fortunes. 

Falconer, the unfortunate author of the 
" Shipwreck," which you so much admire, is 
no more. After witnessing the dreadful 
catastrophe he so feelingly describes in his 
poem, and after weathering many hard gales 
of fortune, he went to the bottom with thti 
Aurora frigate ! 



TO MR. PETl^R HILL. 



859 



I forget what part of Scotland had the 
honour of giving hiin birth, but he was the 
»on of obscurity and misfortune. He was 
one of those daring adventurous spirits, 
which Scotland, beyond any other country, 
is remarkable for producing. Little does 
the fond mother think, as she hangs delighted 
over the sweet little leech at her bosom, 
where the poor fellow may hereafter wander, 
and what may be his fate. I remember a 
stanza in an old Scottish ballad (lOOj, which, 
notwithstanding its rude simplicity, speaks 
feelingly to the heart : — 

"Little did my mother think. 
That day she cradled me. 
What land I was to travel in, 
Or what death I should die ! " 

Old Scottish songs are, you know, a fa- 
vourite study and pursuit of mine; and now 
I am on that subject, allow me to give you 
two stanzas of another old simple ballad, 
which I am sure will please you. The catas- 
trophe of the piece is a poor ruined female, 
lamenting her fate. She concludes with this 
pathetic wish : — 
" Oh that ray father had ne'er on me smil'd ; 

Oh that my mother had ne'er to me sung ; 
Oh that my cradle had not e'er been rock'd ; 

But that I had died when I was young ! 

Oh that the turf-clad grave it were my bed ; 

My blankets were ray winding-sheet; 
The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a'; 

And oh sae soundly sweet aa I should 
sleep ' " 

I do not remember in all my reading to have 
met with anything more truly the language 
of misery, tiian the exclamation in the last 
hue. Misery is like love ; to speak its 
language truly, the author must have felt it. 

I am every day expecting the doctor to 
give your little godson (101) the small-pox. 
It is rife in the country, and I tremble 
for his fiite. By the way, I cannot iielp 
congratulating you on his looks and spirit. 
Every person wlin sees him acknowledges 
hira to be the finest, handsomest child he 
has ever seen. I am myself delighted with 
the manly swell of his little chest, and a cer- 
tain miniature dignity m the carriage of his 
head, and llie glance of his tine black eye, 
which promise the undaunted gallantry of an 
independent mind. 

I thought to have sent you some rhymes, 
but time forbids. I promise you poetry 
until you are tired of it, next time I have 
the honour of assuring you how truly I am, 
&C. R. B. 



NO. CXCIII. 

TO MR. PETER HILL. 

BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH. 

ElMand, Feb. 2nd, 1790. 

No ! I will not say one word about 
apologies or excuses for not writing ; — 1 am a 
poor, rascally gauger, condemned to gallop 
at least 200 miles every week to inspect 
dirty ponds and yeasty barrels, and where 
can I find time to write to, or importance to 
interest any body ? The upbraidings of my 
conscience, nay the upbraidings of my wife, 
have persecuted me on your account these 
two or three months past. I wish to God I 
was a great man, that my correspondence 
might throw light upon you, to let the world 
see what you really are : and then I would 
make your fortune, without putting my 
hand in my pocket for you, which, like all 
other great men, I suppose I would avoid as 
much as possible. What are you doing, and 
how are you doing ? Have you lately seen 
any of my few friends ? What has become 
of the BOROUGH REFORM, or how is the 
fate of my poor namesake, Mademoiselle 
Burns, decided ? Oh man ! but for thee and 
thy selfish appetites, and dishonest artifices, 
that beauteous form, and that once innocent 
and still ingenuous mind, might have shone 
conspicuous and lovely in the faithful wife, 
and the affectionate mother ; and shall the 
unfortunate sacrifice to thy pleasures have 
no claim on thy humanity ! (102) 

I saw lately in a review some extracts 
from a new poem, called the " Village 
Curate ; " send it me. I want likewise a 
cheap copy of "The World." Mr. Arm- 
strong, the young poet, who does me the 
honour to mention me so kindly in his 
works, please give hira my best tlianks for 
the copy of his book. I shall write hiin, my 
first leisure hour. I like his poetry much, 
but I thmk his style in prose quite aston- 
ishing. 

Your book came safe, and I am going to 
trouble you with further commissions. I 
call it troubling you — because I want only, 
BOOKS ; the cheapest way, the best ; so you 
may have to hunt for them in the evening 
auctions. I want Smollett's Works, for the 
sake of his incomparable humour. 1 have 
already Roderick Random, and Humphrey 
Clinker. Perigrine Pickle, lianncelot Greaves, 
ami Ferdinand Count Fathom, I still want ; 
but as I said, the veriest ordinary copies 
will serve me. I am nice only in the ap- 
pearance of my poets. 1 forget the price of 
Cowper'g Poems, but I believe J must have 



32 



360 



COURESVoNOENnE O^ nrRX"? 



tliein. I saw, the other day, proposals for a 
publication, entitled, " Bank's new and com- 
plete Christian's Family Bible," printed for 
C. Cooke, Paternoster Row, London. He 
promises, at least, to give in the work, I think 
it is three hundred and odd engravings, to 
which he has put the names of the first 
artists in London. (103) You will know the 
character of the performance, as some num- 
bers of it are published : and if it is really 
what it pretends to be, set me down as a 
subscriber, and send me the published 
numbers. 

Let me hear from you, your first leisure 
minute, and trust me, you shall in future 
have '10 reason to complain of my silence. 
Tiie dazzling perple.\ity of novelty will dis- 
sipate, and leave me to pursue my course in 
the quiet path of methodical routine. 

R. B. 



NO. CXCIT. 



TO MR. W. NICOL. 

ElMand, Feb. 9th, 1790. 

My dear Sik — That mar" of yours 

is dead. I would freely have given her price 
to have saved her ; she has vexed me beyond 
description. Indebted, as I was, to your 
goodness beyond what 1 can ever repay, I 
eagerly grasped at your offer to have tlie 
mare with me. That I might at least show 
my readiness in wishing to be grateful, I 
took every care of her ni my power. She 
was never crossed for riding above half a 
score of times by me, or in ray keeping. I 
drew her in the plough, one of three, for one 
poor week. I refused fifty-five shillings for 
her, which was the highest bode I could 
squeeze for her. I fed her up and had her 
in fine order for Dumfries fair; when four 
or five days before the fair, she was seized 
with an unaccountable disorder in the sinews, 
or somewhere in the bones of the neck; 
with a weakness or total want of power in 
her fillets, and, in short, the whole vertebra; 
of her spine seemed to be diseased and 
unhinged, and in eight and forty hours, in 
spite of the two best farriers in the country, 

"he dieil, and be to her ! The farriers 

bi^id that she had been quite strained in the 
fillets beyond cure before you had bought 
her; and that the poor devil, though she 
might keep a little flesh, had been jaded and 
quite worn out with fatigue and oppression. 
V\ bile she was with me, she was under my 



own eye, and, 1 assure you, my much-valued 
friend, everything was done for ber that 
could be done ; and the accident has vexed 
me to the heart. In fact I could not pluck 
up spirits to write to you, on account of the 
unfortunate business. 

There is little new in this country. Our 
theatrical company, of which you must have 
heard, leave tis this week. Their merit and 
character are, indeed, very great, both on the 
stage and in private life ; not a worthless 
creature among them ; and their encourage- 
ment has been accordmgly. Their usual run 
is from eighteen to twenty-five pounds »- 
night ; seldom less than the one, and tbe 
house will hold no more than the other. 
There have been repeated instances of send- 
ing away six, and eight, and ten pounds 
anight for want of room. A new theatre is 
to be built by subscription ; the first stone 
is to be laid on Friday first to come. Three 
hundred guineas have been raised by thirty 
subscribers, and thirty more might have been 
got if wanted. The manager, Mr Suther- 
land, was introduced to me by a friend from 
Ayr ; and a worthier or cleverer fellow I 
have rarely met with. Some of our clergy 
have slipt in by stealth now and then ; but 
they have got up a farce of their own. Yon 
must have heard how the Rev. Mr. Lawson 
of Kirkmahoe, seconded by the Rev. Mr. 
Kirkpatrick of Dunscore, and the rest of 
that faction, have accused, in formal process, 
the unfortunate and Rev. Mr. Heron, of 
Kirkgunzeon, that, in ordaining Mr. Nielson 
to the cure of souls in Kirkbean, he, the 
said Heron, feloniously and treasonably 
bound the said Nielson to the confession of 
faith, so far as it was agreeable to reason and 
the word of God ! 

Mrs. B. begs to be remembered most 
gratefully to you. Little Bobby and Frank 
are charmingly well and healthy. I am 
jaded to death with fatigue. For these two 
or three months, on an average, I have not 
ridden less than 200 miles per week. I have 
done little in the poetic way. I have given 
JMr. Sutherland two Prologues ; one of 
which was delivered last week. I have like- 
wise strung four or five barbarous stanzas, to 
the tune of Chevy Chase, by way of Elegy 
on your poor unfortunate mare, beginning 
(the name she got here was Peg Nicholson) 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. 

As ever trode on aim ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

And past the mouth o' Cairn. 

My best compliments to xMrs. Nicol, and 
little Neddy, and all the family; I hope Ned 



I 



TO SlJl. CUNNINGHAM. 



361 



It a good scholar, and will come out to 
gather nuts and apples with me next harvest. 
R. B. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. (104) 

Ellisland, February VSth, 1790. 

T BEG j'our pardon, my dear and much- 
valued friend, for writing- to you on this 
very unfashionable, unsightly sheet. 

My poverty, but not my will, consents. 

But to make amends, since of modish post 
I have none, except one poor widowed half- 
sheet of gilt, which lies in my drawer, among 
my plebeian foolscap pages, like the widow 
of a man of fashion, whom that impolite 
scoundrel. Necessity, has driven from Bur- 
gundy and Pineapple, to a dish of Bohea 
with the scandal-bearing help-mate of a 
village-priest ; or a glass of whisky-toddy, 
with a ruby-nosed yoke-fellow of a foot- 
padding exciseman — I make a vow to enclose 
this sheet-full of epistolary fragments in that 
my only scrap of gilt-paper. 

I am, indeed, your worthy debtor for three 
friendly letters. I ought to have written to 
you long ere now, but it is a literal fact, I have 
scarcely a spare moment. It is not that I 
will not WTite to you : Miss Burnet is not 
more dear to her guardian angel, nor his 
grace the Duke of Queensberry to the 
powers of darkness, than my friend Cun- 
ningham to me. It is not that I cannot 
write to you ; should you doubt it, take the 
following fragment, which was intended for 
you some time ago, and be convinced that I 
can authesize sentiment, and circumvolule 
periods, as well as any coiner of plirase in 
the regions of philology. 

December, 1789 
My Dear Cunningh,\m — Where are 
you ? And what are you doing? Can you 
be that son of levity, who takes up a frieud- 
sliip as he takes up a fashion ; or, are you, 
like some other of the worthiest fellows in 
the world, the victim of indolence, laden 
with fetters of ever-increasing weight? 

What strange beings we are ! Since we 
have a portion of conscious existence, 
efpially capable of enjoying pleasure, hap- 
piness, and rapture, or of suffering pain, 
wretchedness, and misery ; it is surely 
worthy of an inquiry, whether there be not 
inch a thing as a science of life; whether 



method, economy, and fertility of expedi- 
ents, be not applicable to enjoyment ; and 
whether there be not a want of dexterity 
in pleasure, which renders our little scantling 
of happiness still less; and a profuscness 
and intoxication in bliss, which leads tc 
satiety, disgust, and self-abhorrence. Thert 
is not a doubt but that health, talents, 
character, decent competency, respectable 
friends, are real substantial blessings ; and 
yet, do we not daily see those who enjoy 
many or all of the.se good things, contrive 
notwithstanding, to be as unhappy as others 
to whose lot few of them have fallen ? 1 
believe one great source of this mistake oi 
misconduct is owing to a certain stminlus. 
with us called ambition, which goads us up 
the hill of life ; not as we ascend other 
eminences, for the laudable curiosity ol 
viewing an extended landscape, but, rather. 
for the dishonest pride of looking down 
on others of our fellow-creatures, seem 
ingly diminutive in humbler stations, &c 
&c. 

Sunday, February lith, 1790. 
God help me! I am now obliged to join 
Night to day, and Sunday to the week. 

If there be any truth in the orthodox faith 

of these churches, I am past re 

demption, and, what is worse, to 

all eternity. I am deeply read in Boston's 
Four-fold State, jMarshall on Sanctification. 
Guthrie's Trial of a Saving Interest, &c. ; 
but, " there is no balm in Gilead, there is no 
physician there," for me ; so I shall e'en 
turn Arminian, and trust to "Sincere thougli 
imperfect obedience." 

Tuesday, 16/ A. 

Luckily for me, I was prevented frora 
the discussion of the knotty point at which 
I had just made a full stop. All my fears 
and cares are of tins world : if there i? 
another, an honest man has nothing to fear 
from it. I hate a man that wishes to be t 
deist ; but I fear, every fair, nnprejudicec' 
inquirer must, in some degree, be a sceptic 
It is not that there are any very staggering 
arguments against the immortality of man ; 
but, like electricity, phlogiston, &e., the 
subject is so involved in darkness, that we 
want data to go upon. One thing frightens 
me much : that we are to li^e for ever, 
seems too good news to be true. That we 
are to enter into a new scene of existence, 
where, exempt from want and pain, we shall 
enjoy ourselves and our friends without 
satiety or separation ; — how much should 



362 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



I be indebted to any one who could fully 
assure me that this was certain! 

My time is once more expired. I will 
write to j\lr. Cleghorn soon. God bless him 
and all his concerns ! And may all the 
powers that preside over conviviality and 
friendship be present with all their kindest 
influence, when the bearer of this, Mr. 
Syme, and you meet ! I wish I could also 
make one. 

Finally, brethren, farewell ! Wiatsoever 
thin^cs are lovely, whatsoever things are 
gentle, whatsoever things are charitable, 
whatsoever things are kind, think on these 
things, and think on. 

R. B. 



NO. CXCVl. 

TO MR. HILL. 

Ellisland, March 2nd, 1790. 

At a late meeting of the Monkland 
Friendly Society, it was resolved to aiigment 
their library by the following books, which 
you are to send us as soon as possible : — 
The Mirror, The Lounger, Man of Feeling, 
Man of the World (these, for my own sake, 
I wish to have by the first carrier), Knox's 
History of the Reformation ; Rae's History 
of the Rebellion in 1715; any good History 
of the Rebellion in 1745; A Display of 
the Secession Act and Testimony, by Mr. 
Gib; Hervey's Meditations; Beveridge's 
Thoughts ; and another copy of Watson's 
Body of Divinity. 

I wrote to Mr. A. Masterton three or 
four months ago, to pay some money he 
owed me into your hands, and lately, I 
wrote to you to the same purpose ; but 1 
have heard from neither one nor other of 
you. 

In addition to the books I commissioned 
in my last, I want very much Au Index to 
the Excise Laws, or an Abridgement of all 
the Statutes now in force relative to tlie 
Excise, by Jellinger Symons ; I want three 
copies of this book ; if it is now to be had, 
cheap or dear, get it for nie. An honest 
country neighbour of mine wants, too, a 
Family Bible, the larger the better, but 
second-handed, for he does not choose to 
give above ten shillings for the book. I 
want likewise for myself, as you can pick 
them up, second-handed, or cheap, copies of 
Otway's Dramatic Works, Ben Jonson's, 
Dryden's, Congreve's, Wycherley's, Van- 
bnrgh's. Gibber's, or any Dramatic Works 
of the more modern JIacklin, Garrick, 
Poote, Colman, or Sheridan. \ trond ropy 



too, of Moliere, in French, I much want. 
Any other good dramatic authors in that 
language I want also; but comic authors 
chiefly, though I should wish to have 
Racine, Corneille, and Voltaire too. I am in 
no hurry for all, or any of these, but if you 
accidently meet with them very cheap, get 
them for me. (105) 

And now, to quit the dry walk of business, 
how do you do, my dear friend ?— and how 
is Blrs. Hill ? I trust, if now and then not 
so elepantly handsome, at least as amiable, 
and sings as divinely as ever. My good 
wife, too, has a charming "wood-note wild;" 
now could we four . 

I am out of all patience with this vile 
world, for one thing. Mankind are by 
nature benevolent creatures, except in a few 
scoundrelly instances. I do not think that 
avarice of the good things we chance to 
have is born with us : but, we are placed 
here amid so much nakedness, and hunger, 
and poverty, and want, that we are under a 
cursed necessity of studying sellishness, in 
order that we may exi.st! Still there are, 
in every age, a few soids, that all the wants 
and woes of life cannot debase to selfish- 
ness, or even to the necessary alloy of 
caution and prudence. If ever 1 am in 
danger of vanity, it is when I contemplate 
myself on this side of my disposition and 
character. God knows, I am no saint; I 
liave a whole host of follies and sins to 
answer for; but if I could, and I believe I 
do it as far as I can, I would wipe away all 
tears from all eyes. Adieu ! R. B. 



NO. CXCVII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, April 10th, 1790. 
I HAVE just now, my ever-honoured 
friend, enjoyed a very high luxury, in read- 
ing a paper of the Loimger. You know my 
national prejudices. I iiad often read and 
admired the Spectator, Adventurer, Rambler, 
and World ; but still, with a certain regret 
that they were so thoroughly and entirely 
English. Alas ! have I often said t^ myself, 
what are all the boasted advantages which 
my country reaps from the union, that can 
counterbalance the annihilation of her inde- 
pendence, and even her \ ery name ! I often 
repeat that couplet of my favourite poet, 
Goldsmith — 

States, of native liberty posscst, 

Tlinii"-h very poor, mav vet he verv blest. 



TO COLLECTOR MITCHELL. 



363 



Nothing cat\ reconcile me to the common 
terms, Enjchsh ambassador, English court, 
&c. And I am out of all patience to see 
that equivocal character, Hastinj^s, im- 
peached by "the Commons of England." 
Tell me, my friend, is this weak prejudice ? 
1 believe, on my conscience, such ideas as — 
"my country, her independence, her hon- 
our, the illustrious names that mark the 
history of my native lanrl," &c. — I believe 
these, among your men of the world, — men 
who, in fact, guide for the most part and 
govern our world, — are looked on as so many 
modifications of wrong-headedness. They 
know the use of bawling out such terms, to 
rouse or lead the rabble; but for their 
own private use, with almost all the able 
statesmen that ever existed, or now exist, 
when tlicy talk of right and wrong, they 
only mean proper and improper ; and their 
measure of conduct is not what they ought, 
but what they DAtiE. For the truth of 
this, 1 shall not ransack the history of 
nations, but appeal to one of the ablest 
judges of men that ever lived — the cele- 
brated Earl of Chesterfield. In fact, a man 
who could thoroughly control his vices 
whenever they interfered with his interests, 
and who could completely put on the ap- 
pearance of every virtue as often as it 
suited his purposes, is, on the Stauhopian 
plan, the perfect man; a man to lead 
nations. But' are great abilities, complete 
without a flaw, and polished without a 
blemish, the standard of human excellence ? 
This is certainly the staunch opinion of men 
of the ivorld; but I call on honour, virtue, 
and worth, to give the Stygian doctrine a 
loud negative ! However, this must be 
allowed, that, if you abstract from man the 
idea of an existence beyond the grave, then 
the true measure of human conduct is, 
proper and improper; virtue and vice, as 
dispositions of the heart, are, in that case, 
of scarcely the same import and value to the 
world at large, as harmony and discord in 
the modifications of sound; and a delicate 
sense of honour, like a nice ear for music, 
though it may sometimes give tiie possessor 
an ecstacy unknown to the coarser organs 
of the herd, yet, considering the harsh 
gratings, and inharmonic jars, in this ill- 
tuned state of being, it is odds but the 
individual would be as happy, and certainly 
would be as much respected, by the true 
judges of sfjciety as it would then stand, 
witliDUt either a good ear or a good heart. 

You must know, I have just met with the 
Mirror and Lounger for the first time, and I 
am quite in raptures with them ; I should 



be glad to have your opinton of some of the 
papers. The one I have just read, Lounger, 
No. 61, has cost me more honest tears than 
any thing I have read of a long time. (lOG) 
Jlackenzie has been called the Addison of 
the Scots, and, in my opinion, Addison 
would not be hurt at the comparison. If he 
has not Addison's exquisite humour, he as 
certainly outdoes him in the tender and the 
pathetic. His Man of Feeling (but I am 
not counsel-learned in the laws of criticism) 
I estimate as the first performance in its 
kind I ever saw. From what book, moral 
or even pious, will the susceptible young 
mind receive impressions more congenial to 
humanity and kindness, generosity and be- 
nevolence — in short, more of all that enno- 
bles the soul to herself, or endears her to 
others — than from the simple affecting tale 
of poor Harley ? 

Still, with allmy admiration of Mackenzie's 
writings, I do not know if they are the fittest 
reailing for a young man who is about to set 
out, as the phrase is, to make his way into 
life. Do not you think, Madam, that among 
the few favoured of Heaven in the structure 
of their minds (for such there certainly are), 
there may be a purity, a tenderness, a 
dignity, an elegance of soul, which are of no 
use, nay, in some degree, absolutely dis- 
qualifying, for the truly important business 
of making a man's way into life ! If I am 
not much mistaken, my gallant young friend 
A******, is very much under these disquali- 
fications ; and, for the young females of o 
family I could mention, well may they excite 
parental solicitude, for I, a common ac- 
quaintance, or as my vanity will have it, a 
humble friend, have often trembled for a 
turn of mind which may render them emi- 
nently happy, or peculiarly miseraljle ! 

I have been manufacturing some verses 
lately ; but as I have got the most hurried 
season of Excise business over, I hope to 
have more leisure to transcribe any thing 
that may show how nuicli I have the honour 
to be. Madam, yours. &c. R. B. 



NO. CXCVIII. 

TO COLLECTOR iMITCHELL 

Ellklnnd, 1790. 

Sir — I shall not fail to wait on Captain 
Riddel to-night— I wish and pray that the 
goddess of justice herself would appear to- 
morrow among our hon. gentlemen, merely 
to give them a word in their car that mercy 



^V 



364 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



to the thief is injustice to the honest man. 
For my part, I have galloped over my ten 
parishes these four days, until this moment 
that I am just alighted, or rather, that my 
poor jackass-skeleton of a horse has let me 
down ; for the miserable devil has been on 
his knees half a score of times within the 
hist twenty miles, telling me, in his own 
way, " Behold, am not I thy faithful jade of 
a horse, on which thou hast ridden these 
many years !" 

In short. Sir, I have broke my horse's 
wind, and almost broke my own neck, 
besides some injuries in a part that shall be 
nameless, owing to a hard-hearted stone of 
a saddle. I find that every offender has so 
many great men to espouse his cause, that I 
shall not be surprised if I am committed to 
the strong-hold of the law to-morrow for 
insolence to the dear friends of the gentle- 
men of the country. I have the honour to 
be. Sir, your obliged and obedient hiunble 
E. B. 



NO. CXCIX. 

TO DR. MOORE. 
Dumfries, Excise-Office, July Uth, 1790. 

Sir — Coming into town this morning to 
attend my duty iu this office, it being col- 
lection-day, I met with a gentleman who 
tells me he is on his way to London ; so I 
take the opportunity of writing to you, as 
franking is at present under a temporary 
death. I shall have some snatches of leisure 
through the day, amid our horrid business 
and bustle, and I shall improve them as well 
as I can ; but let my letter be as stupid as 
* * * *, as miscellaneous as a newspaper, 
as short as a hungry grace-before-meat, or 
as long as a law-paper in the Douglas cause ; 
as ill-spelt as country John's billet-doux, 
or as unsightly a scrawl as Betty Byre- 
Mucker's answer to it ; I hope, considering 
circumstances, you will forgive it ; and as it 
will put you to no expeuse of postage, I 
shall have the less reflection about it. 

I am sadly ungrateful in not returning 
you my thanks for your most valuable pre- 
sent, Zeluco. In fact, you are in some 
degree blaraeable for my neglect. You were 
pleased to express a wish for my opinion of 
the work, which so flattered me, that nothing 
less would serve my overweening fancy, than 
a formal criticism on the book. In fact, I 
have gravely planned a comparative view of 
you. Fielding, Richardson aud Smollett, in 



your different qualities and merits as novel 
writers. This, I own, betrays my ridiculous 
vanity, and I may probably never bring the 
business to bear; but I am fond of the 
spirit young Elihu shows in the book of 
Job — "And I said, I will also declare my . 
opinion." I have quite disfigured my copy 
of the book with my annotations. I never 
take it up without at the same time taking 
my pencil, aud marking with asterisks, 
parentheses, &c., wherever I meet with an 
original thought, a nervous remark on life 
and manners, a remarkable, well-turned 
period, or a character sketched with un- 
common precision. 

Though I should hardly think of fairly 
writing out my " Comparative View," I 
shall certainly trouble you with my remarks, 
such as they are. 

I have just received from my gentleman 
that horrid summons in the book of Reve- 
lation — "That time shall be no more !" 

The little collection of sonnets have some 
charming poetry in them. If, indeed, I am 
indebted to the fair author for the book (107), 
and not, as I rather suspect, to a celebrated 
author of the other sex, I should certainly 
have written to the lady, with my grateful 
acknowledgments, and my own ideas of the 
comparative excellence of her pieces. I 
would do this last, not from any vanity of 
thinking that my remarks could be of much 
consequence to Mrs. Smith, but merely from 
my own feelings as an author, doing as 1 
would be done by. R. B. 



NO. cc. 
TO MR. MURDOCH, 

TEACHER OP FRENCH, LONDON. 

Ellidand, July \Qtli, 1790. 

My dear Sir — I received a letter from 
you a long time ago, but, unfortunately, as it 
was in the time of my peregrinations and 
journeyings through Scotland, I mislaid or 
lost it, and, by consequence, your direction 
along with it. Luckily, my good star 
brought me acquainted with Mr. Kennedy, 
who, I understand is an acquaintance of 
yours : and by his means and mediation, I 
hope to replace that link which my un- 
fortunate negligence had so unluckily broke 
in the chain of our correspondence. I was 
the more vexed at the vile accident, as my 
brother William, a journeyman saddler, has 
been for some time in London, aud wished 



TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 



S65 



above all things for your direction, that he 
miglit have paid his respects to his father's 
friend. 

His last address he sent to me was," Wm. 
Burns, at Mr. Barber's, saddler. No. 181, 
Strand." I writ him by IMr. Kennedy, but 
neglected to ask him for your address ; so, 
if you find a spare half minute, please let 
my brother know by a card where and when 
he will find you, and the poor fellow will 
Joyfully wait on you, as one of the few 
surviving friends of the man whose name, 
and Christian name too, he has the honour 
to bear. 

The next letter I write you shall be a long 
one. I have much to tell you of " hair- 
breath 'scapes in th' iramuient deadly 
breach," with all the eventful history of a 
life, the early years of which owed so much 
to your kind tutorage ; but this at an hour 
of leisure. My kindest compliments to Mrs. 
Murdoch, and family. I am ever, my dear 
Sir, your obliged friend, R. B. (108) 



its truth — a quality rather rare in compli- 
ments of these grinning, bowing, scraping 
times. 

A\'ell, I hope writing to you will ease a 
little my troubled soul. Sorely has it been 
bruised to-day ! A ci-deoant friend of mine, 
and an intimate acquaintance of yours, has 
given my feelings a wound that I perceive 
will gangrene dangerously ere it cure. He 
has wounded my pride. B. B. 



TO MR. M'MURDO. 

Ellisland, August 2nd, 1790. 

Sir — Now, that you are over with the 
sirens of Flattery, the harpies of Corruption, 
and the furies of Ambition — these infernal 
deities, that on all sides, and in all parties, 
preside over the villainous business of poli- 
tics — permit a rustic muse of your acquain- 
tance to do her best to soothe you with a 
song. 

You knew Henderson — I have not flat- 
tered his memory. I have the honour to 
be. Sir, your obliged humble servant, 

E. B 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

August 8th, 1790. 

Dear Madam — After a long day's toil, 
plague and care, I sit down to write to you. 
Ask me not why I have delayed it so long ? 
It was owing to hurry, indolence, and fifty 
Other things; in short, to anything but 
forgetfulness of la plus aimahle de sou sexe. 
By the bye, you are indebted your best 
courtesy to me for this last comphment, as 
I pay it from my sincere conviction of 



NO. CCIII. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, August 8th, 1790. 

Forgive me, my once dear, and ever 
dear friend, my seeming negligence. You 
cannot sit down and fancy the busy life I 
lead. 

I laid down my goose feather to beat my 
brains for an apt simile, and had some 
thoughts of a country grannum at a family 
christening — a bride on the market-day 
before her marriage, or a tavern-keeper at 
an election dinner ; but the resemblance 
that hits my fancy best is, that blackguard 
miscreant, Satan, who roams about like a 
roaring hon, seeking, searching whom he 
may devour. However, tossed about as I 
am, if I choose (and who would not choose?) 
to bind down with the crampets of atten- 
tion the brazen foundation of integrity, I 
may rear up the superstructure of inde- 
pendence, and from its daring turrets bid 
defiance to the storms of fate. And is 
not this a " consummation devoutly to be 
wished ? " 
Thy spirit, Independence, let me share ; 

Lord of the hon-heart, and eagle-eye! 
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare. 

Nor heed the storm that howls along the 
sky ! 

Are not these noble verses? They are 
the introduction of Smollett's Ode to In- 
dependence : if you have not seen the poem, 
I will send it to you. How wretched is the 
man that hangs on by the favours of tlie 
great! To shrink from every dignity of 
man, at the approach of a lordly piece of 
self-cousequeuce, who, amid all his tinsel 
glitter and stately hauteur, is but a creature 
formed as thou art — and perhaps not 
so well formed as thou art — came into the 
world a puling infant as though didst, and 
must go out of it, as all men must, a naked 
cx)rsa R.B.(109) 



366 



COREESPONDENCE OP BURNS. 



NO. CCIV. 

I'D DR. ANDERSON. 

Sir — I am much indebted to my worthy 
friend, Dr. Blacklock, for introducing me to 
a gentleman of Dr. Anderson's celebrity ; 
but when you do me the honour to ask my 
assistance in your proposed publication, 
alas, Sir ! you might as well think to cheapen 
a little honesty at the sign of an advocate's 
wig, or humility under the Geneva band. 
I am a miserable hurried devil, worn to the 
marrow in the friction of holding the noses 
of the poor publicans to the grindstone of 
the Excise ! and, like Milton's Satan, for 
private reasons, am forced 
To do what yet though dainn'd I would abhor. 

— and, except a couplet or two of honest 
execration • » * » 

R. B. (110) 



NO. CCV. 

TO CRAUPORD TAIT, Esq., 

EDINBURGH. 

Ellisland, October 15</i, 1790. 

Dear Sir — Allow me to introduce to 
your acquaintance the bearer, Mr. Wm. Dun- 
can, a friend of mine, whom I have long 
known and long loved. Ilis father, whose 
only son he is, has a decent little property 
in Ayrshire, and has bred the young man to 
the law, in which department he comes up 
an adventurer to your good town. I shall 
give you my friend's character in two words: 
as to his head, he has talents enough, and 
more than enough, for common life ; as to 
his heart, when nature had fashioned the 
kindly clay that composes it, she said, " I 
can no more." 

You, ray good Sir, were born under kinder 
stars ; but your fraternal sympathy, I well 
know, can enter into the feelings of the 
young man who goes into life with the lau- 
dable ambition to do something, and to be 
something, among his fellow-creatures, but 
whom the consciousness of friendless obscu- 
rity presses to the earth, and wounds to the 
soul. 

Even the fairest of his virtues are against 
him. That independent spirit, and that 
ingenuous modesty, qualities inseparable from 
a noble mind, are, with the million, circum- 
stances not a little disqualifying. What 
pleasure is in the power of the fortunate and 
the happy, by their notice and patronage. 



to brighten the countenance and glad the 
heart of such depressed youth! I am not 
BO angry with mankind for their deaf eco- 
nomy of the purse : the goods of this world 
cannot be divided without being lessened — 
but why be a niggard of that which bestows 
bliss on a fellow-creature, yet takes nothin!» 
from our own means of enjoyment? We 
wrap ourselves up in the cloak of our owa 
better fortune, and turn away our eyes, 
lest the wants and woes of our brother 
mortals should disturb the selfish apathy of 
our souls ! 

I am the worst hand in the world at ask- 
ing a favour. That indirect address, that 
insinuating impHcation, which, without any 
positive request, plainly expresses your wish, 
is a talent not to be acquired at a plough- 
tail. Tell me then, for you can, in what 
periphrasis of language, in what circumvo- 
lution of phrase, I shall envelope, yet not 
conceal, this plain story — " My dear Mr. 
Tait, my friend Mr. Duncan, whom I have 
the pleasure of introducing to you, is a 
young lad of your own profession, and a 
gentleman of much modesty and great 
worth. Perhaps, it may be in your power 
to assist him in the, to him, important con- 
sideration of getting a place, but, at all 
events, your notice and acquaintance will be 
a very great acquisition to him ; and I dare 
pledge myself, that he will never disgrace 
your favour." 

You may possibly be surprised. Sir, at 
such a letter from me ; 'tis, I own, in the 
usual way of calculating these matters, more 
than our acquaintance entitles me to ; but 
my answer is short : — of all the men at your 
time of life, whom I knew in Edinburgh, 
you are the most accessible on the side on 
which I have assailed you. You are very 
much altered, indeed, from what you were 
when I knew you, if generosity point the 
path you will not tread, or humanity call to 
you in vain. 

As to myself, a being to whose interest 
I believe you are still a well-wisher, I am 
here, breathing at all times, thinking some- 
times, and rhyming now and then. Every 
situation has its share of the cares and 
pains of life, and my situation, I am per- 
suaded, has a full ordinary allowance of its 
pleasures and enjoyments. 

JMy best compliments to your father and 
Miss Tait. If you have an opportunity, 
please remember me in the solemn-league- 
aud-covenant of friendship to Mrs. Lewis 
Hay. I am a wretch for not writing her ; 
but I am so hackneyed with self-accusation 
in that way, that my conscience lies in my 



I 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



367 



bosom with scarce the sensibility of an ] 
oyster ia its shell. Where is Lady M'Ken- 
zie ? wherever she is, God bless her ! I 
likewise beg leave to trouble you with 
compliraents to Mr. Wra. Hamilton, Mrs. 
Hamilton, and family, and Mrs. Chalmers, 
when you are in that country. Should 
you meet with Jliss Nimmo, please re- 
member me kindly to her. 

R. B. 



NO. CCVL 

TO DR. BLA.CKLOCK. 

EUisland, 1790. 

Dear Sir — ^WTiether in the way of my 
trade, I can be of any service to the Rev. 
Doctor, is, I fear, very doubtful. Ajax's 
shield consisted, I think, of seven bull hides, 
and a plate of brass, which, altogether, set 
Hector's utmost force at defiance. Alas ! I 
am not a Hector, and the worthy Doctor's 
foes are as securely armed as Ajax was. 
Ignorance, superstition, bigotry, stupidity, 
malevolence, self-conceit, envy — all strongly 
bound in a massy frame of brazen impu- 
dence. Good God, Sir ! to such a shield, 
humour is the peck of a sparrow, and satire 
the pop-gun of a school-boy. Creation-dis- 
gracing scelerats such as they, God only 
can mend, and the devil only can punish. In 
the comprehensive way of Caligula, I wish 
they all had but one neck. I feel impotent 
as a child to the ardour of ray wishes ! Oh, 
for a withering curse to blast the germens of 
their wicked machinations. Oh, for a poison- 
ous tornado, winged from the torrid zone of 
Tartarus, to sweep the spreading crop of 
their viilanous contrivances to the lowest 
helL B. B. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. (Ill) 

EUisland, November, 1790. 

" As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is 
good news from a far country." 

Fate has long owed me a letter of good 
news from you, in return for the many 
tidings of sorrow which I have received. In 
this instance, I most cordially obey the apos- 
tle — " Rejoice with them that do rejoice." — 
For me to ainj fur joy, ia no new thuig ; but 



to preach for joy, as I have done in the com- 
mencement of this epistle, is a pitch of ex- 
travagant rapture to which I never rose 
before. 

I read your letter— I literally jumped for 
joy. How could such a mercurial creature 
as a poet lumpishly keep his seat, on the 
receipt of the best news from his best friend. 
I seized my gilt-headed "Wangee rod, an in- 
strument indispensably necessary, in my 
left hand, in the moment of inspirntion and 
rapture ; and stride, stride — quick and 
quicker— out skipt I among the broomy 
banks of Nith to muse over my joy by 
retail. To keep within the bounds of prose 
was impossible. INIrs. Little's is a more ele- 
gant, but not a more sincere compliment to 
the sweet little fellow, than I, extempore 
almost, poured out to him in the following 
verses : — 

Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love. 

And ward o' mony a prayer. 
What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! 
November hirples o'er the lea 

Chill on thy lovely form ; 
And gane, alas ! the shelt'ring tree 

Should shield thee frae the storiQ. 
May He, who gives the rain to pour. 

And wings the blast to blaw. 
Protect thee frae the driving show'r. 

The bitter frost and snaw ! 
Alay He, the friend of woe and want, 

AVho heals life's various stounds, 
Protect and guard tlie mother-plant. 

And heal her cruel wounds ! 
But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, 

Fair on the summer morn ; 
Now, feebly bends she in the blast, 

Unshelter'd and forlorn. 
Best be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 

Unscath'd by ruffian hand ! 
And from thee many a parent stem 

Arise to deck our land ! 

I am much flattered by your approbation 
of my " Tam o' Shanter," which you express 
in your former letter ; though, by the bye, 
you load me in that said letter with accusa- 
tions heavy and many, to all which I pleail 
7iot guilty! Your book is, I hear, on the 
road to reach me. As to printing of poetry, 
when you prepare it for the press, you have 
only to spell it right, and place the capital 
letters properly — as to the punctuation, the 
printers do that themselves. 

I have a copy of " Tam o' Shanter" ready 
to send you by the first oppoitunity — it is 
too heavy to send by post. 



368 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



I heard of Mr. Corbet (112) lately. He, 
in consequence of your recommendation, is 
most zealous to serve me. Please favour me 
soon with an account of your good folks ; if 
Mrs. H. is recovering, and the young gentle- 
man doing well. R. B. 



NO. CCVIll. 



1"0 CHARLES SHARPE, Esq., 

OF nODDAM, UNDER A FICTITIOUS 
SIGNATURE, ENCLOSING A BALLAD. 

1791. 

It is true, Sir, you are a gentleman of rank 
and fortune, and I am a poor devil — you are 
a feather in the cap of Society, and I am a 
very hobnail in his shoes ; yet I have the 
honour to belong to the same family with 
you, and on that score I now address you. 
You will, perhaps, suspect that I am going to 
claim attinity with the ancient and honour- 
able house of Kirkpatrick. No, no. Sir; I 
cainiot indeed be properly said to belong to 
any house, or even any province or kingdom ; 
as my mother, who for many years was 
spouse to a marching regiment, gave me into 
this bad world, aboard the packet-boat, 
somewhere between Uonaghadee and Port- 
patritk. By our common family, I mean. 
Sir, the family of the muses. I am a fiddler 
and a poet ; and you, T am told, play an ex- 
quisite violin, and have a standard taste in 
the belles lettres. The other day, a brother 
catgut gave me a charming Scots air of your 
composition. If I was pleased with the 
tune, I was in raptures with the title you 
have given it; and, taking up the idea, I 
have spun it into the three stanzas enclosed. 
Will you allow me, Sir, to present you them, 
as the dearest offering that a misbegotten 
son of poverty and rhyme has to give ! I 
have a longnig to take you by the hand and 
unburden my heart by saying, — " Sir, I 
honour you as a man who supports the dig- 
nity of human nature, amid an age when 
frivolity and avarice have, between them, de- 
oased us below the brutes that perish ! " 
But alas. Sir! to me you are unapproach- 
able. It is true, the muses baptised me in 
■Jastalian streams ; but the thoughtless 
gipsies forgot to give me a name. As the 
sex have served many a good fellow, the 
N'ine have given me a great deal of pleasure ; 
but, bewitching jades 1 they have beggared 
me. Would they but spare me a little of 
their cast-linen! were it only to put it in 



my power to say that I have a shirt on my 
back ! But the idle wenches, like Solomon's 
lilies, " they tod not, neither do they spin ;'* 
so I must e'en continue to tie my remnant of 
a cravat, like the hangman's rope, round my 
naked throat, and coax my galligaskins to 
keep together their many-coloured fragments. 
As to the affair of shoes, I have given that 
up. My pilgrimages in my ballad-trade, 
from town to town, and on your stony- 
hearted turnpikes too, are what not even the 
hide of Job's behemoth could bear. The 
coat on my back is no more; I shall not 
speak evil cf the dead. It would be equally 
unhandsome and ungrateful to find faidt with 
my old surtout, which so kindly supplies 
and conceals the want of that coat. My hat, 
indeed, is a great favourite; and though I 
got it literally for an old song, I would not 
exchange it for the best beaver in Britain. I 
was, during several years, a kind of factotum 
servant to a country clergyman, where I 
picked up a good many scraps of learning, 
particularly in some branches of the mathe- 
matics. AVhenever I feel inclined to rest 
myself on my way, I take my seat under a 
hedge, laying my poetic wallet on tlid one 
side, and my fiddle-case on the other, and, 
placing my hat between my legs, J can by 
means of its brim, or rather brims, go 
through the whole doctrine of the couin 
sections. 

However, Sir, don't let me mislead you, as 
if I would interest your pity. Fortune has 
so much forsaken me, that she has taught me 
to live without her; and, amid all my rags 
and poverty, I am as independent, and much 
more happy, than a monarch of the world. 
According to the hackneyed metaphor, I 
value the several actors in the great drama 
of life, simply as they act their parts. I can 
look on a worthless fellow of a duke with 
unqualified contempt, and can regard au 
honest scavenger with sincere respect. Aa 
you, Sir, go through your role with such dis- 
tinguished merit, permit ine to make one in 
the chorus of universal applause, and assure 
you, that, with the highest respect, I have 
the honour to be, &c. (113) — • — » 



TO LADY W. M. CONSTABLE. 

Ellidand, llth January, 1791. 

My Lady — Nothing less than the un- 
lucky accident of having lately broken my 
right arm, could have prevented nie, the 



TO MR. PETER HILL. 



3<» 



moment I received your ladyship's elegant 
present (114) by Mrs. Miller, from returning 
you my warmest and most grateful acknow- 
ledgments. I assure your ladyship, I sliall 
set it apart — the symbols of religion shall 
only be more sacred. In the moment of 
poetic composition, the box shall be my in- 
spiring genius. When I would breathe the 
comprehensive wish of benevolence for the 
happiness of others, I shall recollect your 
ladyship ; when I would interest my fancy 
in the distresses incident to humanity, I 
shall remember the unfortunate Marv 

R. B. 



TO WILLIAM DUNBAR, W. S. 
Ellialand January ITth, 1791. 

I AM not going to Elysium, most noble 
colonel (115), but am still here in this 
sublunary world, serving my God by propa- 
gating his image, and honouring my king 
by begetting him loyal subjects. 

Many happy returns of the season await 
my friend. May the thorns of care never 
beset his path ! May peace be an muiate 
of his bosom, and rapture a frequent 
visitor of his soul ! May the blood-hounds 
of misfortune never track his steps, nor the 
screech-owl of sorrow alarm his dwelhng ! 
Jlay enjoyment tell thy hours, and pleasure 
number thy days, thou friend of the bard ! 
" Blessed be he that blesseth thee, and 
cursed be he that curseth thee ! " 

As a further proof that I am still in the 
land of existence, I send you a poem, the 
latest I have composed. I have a particular 
reason for wishing you only to show it to 
select friends, should you think it worthy a 
friend's perusal ; but if, at your first leisure 
hour, you will favour me with your opinion 
of, and strictures on the performance, it 
will be an additional obligation on, dear 
Sir, your deeply indebted humble servant, 
E. B. 



NO. CCXl. 

TO MR. PETER HILL. 

EUisland, Jnmtury 17th, 1791. 

T,\KR these two guineas, and place them 
over against that damned account of yours, 
which has gagged my mouth these five or 

B B 



sis months ! I can as little write good 
things as apologies to a man I owe money 
to. Oh the supreme curse of making three 
guineas do the business of five ! Not all the 
labours of Hercules ; not all the Hebrews' 
three centuries of Egyptian bondage, were 
such an insuperable business, such an 
infernal task ! I Poverty, thou half-sister of 
deatli, tliou cousin-german of hell!--where 
shall I find force of execration equal to the 
amplitude of thy demerits ? Oppressed by 
thee, the venerable ancient, grown hoary in 
the practice of every virtue, laden with years 
and wretchedness, implores a little, little 
aid to support his existence, from a stony- 
hearted son ol Mammon, whose sun of 
prosperity neve knew a cloud, and is by 
him denied and insuUH. Oppressed by thee, 
the man of sentiment, whose heart glows 
with independence, and melts with sensi- 
bility, inwardly pines under the neglect, or 
writhes, in bitterness of soul, Uuder the 
contumely of arrogant, unfeeling wealth. 
Oppressed by thee, the son of genius, 
whose ill-starred ambition plants him at the 
tables of the fashionable and polite, must 
see, in sutfering silence, his remark neg- 
lected, and his person despised, while 
shallow greatness, in his idiot attempts at 
wit, shall meet with countenance and ap- 
plause. Nor, is it only the family of worth 
that have reason to complain of thee : — the 
children of folly and vice, though in common 
with thee the offspring of evil, smart equally 
under thy rod. Owing to thee, the man of 
unfortunate disposition and neglected educa- 
tion, is condemned as a fool for his dis- 
sipation, despised and shunned as a needy 
wretch, when his follies as usual bring hira 
to want ; and when his unprincipled neces- 
sities drive him to dishonest practices, he is 
abliorred as a miscreant, and perishes by the 
justice of his country. But, far otherwise is 
the lot of the man of family and fortune. — 
His early follies and extravagance are 
spirit and fire ; — his consequent wants arc 
the embarrasments of an honest fellow; 
and when, to remedy the matter, he has 
gained a legal commission to plunder distant 
provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, he 
returns, perhaps, laden with the spoil of 
rapine and murder; lives wicked and res- 
pected, and dies a scoundrel and a lord. 
Nay, worst of all, alas for helpless woman ! 
— the needy prostitute, who has shivered at 
the corner of the street, waiting to earn the 
wages of casual prostitution, is left neglected 
anil insulted, ridden down by the chariot 
wheels of the coroncted uip, hurrying on to 
the guilty assiguatiou— she who, without 



370 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



the same necessities to plead, riots nightly 
in the same guilty trade. 

Well ! divines may say of it what they 
please ; hut execration is to the mind what 
phlebotomy is to the body — the vital sluices 
of both are wonderfully reUeved by their 
respective evacuations. R. B, 



NO. CCXII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM, 

EUisland Jan. 2Zd, 1791. 

Many happy returns of the season to 
you, my dear friend ! As many of the good 
things of this life, as is consistent with the 
usual mixture of good and evil in the cup of 
being ! 

I have just finished a poem ("Tam o' Shan- 
ter"), which you will receive enclosed. It is 
my first essay in the way of tales. 

1 have these several months been hammer- 
ing at an elegy on the amiable and accom- 
plished Miss Burnet. I liave got, and can 
get, no farther than the following fragment, 
on which please give me your strictures. In 
all kinds of poetic composition, I set great 
store by your opinion ; but in sentimental 
verses, in the poetry of tlie heart, no Roman 
Catholic ever set more value on the infallibi- 
lity of the Holy Father, tlian I do on yours. 

I mean the introductory couplets as text 
verses. 

ELEGY ON THE LATE MISS BURNET 
OF MONBODDO. 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize, 
As Burnet lovely from her native skies ; 
Nor envious death so triumph'din a blow, 
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet 
low. — &c. 



Let me hear from you soon. 



Adieu! 
E. B. 



NO. CCXIII. 



TO A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. (116) 
EUisland, February 1791. 
Sir — Nothing less than the unfortunate 
accident I have met with could have pre- 
vented my grateful acknowledgments for 
your letter. His own favourite poem, and 
that an essay in the walk of the muses en- 
tirely new to him, where consequently his 
hopes and fears were on the most anxious 
alarm for his success in the attempt — to 
have that poem so much applauded by one 



of the first judges, was the most delicious 
vibration that ever thrilled along the heart- 
strings of a poor poet However, Provi- 
dence, to keep up the proper proportion of 
evil with the good, which it seems is neces- 
sary in this sublunary state, thought proper 
to check my exultation by a very serious 
misfortune. A day or two after I received 
your letter, my horse came down with me 
and broke ray right arm. As this is the 
first service my arm has done me since its 
disaster, I find myself unable to do more 
than just, in general terms, thank you for 
this additional instance of your patronage 
and friendship. As to the faults you de- 
tected in tlie piece, they are truly there ; one 
of thein, the hit at the lawyer and priest. I 
shall cut out ; as to the falling off in the 
catastrophe, for the reason you justly adduce, 
it cannot easily be remedied. Your appro- 
bation. Sir, has given me such additional 
spirits to persevere in this species of poetic 
composition, that I am already revolving two 
or three stories in my fancy. If I can bring 
these floating ideas to bear any kind of em- 
bodied form, it will give me an additional 
opportunity of assuring you how much I 
have the honour to be, &c. R. B. 



NO. ccxiv. 
TO 



EUisland, 1791. 

Dear Sir — I am exceedingly to blame 
in not writing you long ago ; but the 
truth is, that I am the most indolent of all 
human beings, and when I matriculate in 
the Herald's Office, I intend that my sup- 
porters shall be two sloths, my crest a slow- 
worm, and the motto, " Deil take the for- 
most." So much by way of apology for 
not thanking you sooner for your kind ex- 
ecution of my commission. 

I would have sent you the poem; but 
somehow or other it found its way into the 
public papers, where you must have seen 
it. I am ever, dear Sir, yours sincerely, 
R. B. 



MO. CCXV. 

TO THE REV. G. BAIRD. (117) 

EUisland, 1791. 

Reverend Sir — Why did you, my deal 
Sir, write to me in such a hesitating stylft 



TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON. 



371 



on the business of poor Bruce ? Don't I 
know, and have I not felt, tlie many ills, the 
peculiar ills, that poetic flesh is heir to ? 
You shall have your choice of all the un- 
published poems I have; and had your 
letter had my direction so as to have reached 
me sooner (it only came to my hand this 
moment), I should have directly put you 
out of suspense on the subject. I only ask, 
that some prefatory advertisement in the 
book, as well as the subscription bills, may 
bear, that the publication is solely for the 
benefit of Bruce's mother. I would not put 
it in the power of ignorance to surmise, or 
malice to insinuate, that I clubbed a share 
in the work from mercenary motives. Nor 
need you give me credit for any remarkable 
generosity in my part of the business. I 
have such a host of peccadilloes, failings, 
follies, and backslidings (any body but my- 
self might perhaps give some of them a 
worse appellation), that by way of some 
balance, however trifling, in the account, 
I am fain to do any good that occurs in my 
very limited power to a fellow creature, just 
for the selfish purpose of clearing a little 
the vista of retrospection. R. B 



NO. ccxvi. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Elllsland, Feb. 1th, 1701. 

When I tell you, Madam, that by a fall, 
not from my horse, but with my horse, I 
have been a cripple some time, and that this 
is the first day my arm and hand have been 
able to serve me in writing, you will allow 
that it is too good an apology for my seem- 
ingly ungrateful silence. I am now getting 
better, and am able to rhyme a little, which 
implies some tolerable ease, as I cannot think 
that the most poetic genius is able to com- 
pose on the rack. 

I do not remember if ever I mentioned to 
you my having an idea of composing an 
elegy on the late Miss Burnet of Monboddo. 
I had the honour of being pretty well ac- 
quainted with her, and have seldom felt so 
much at the loss of an acquaintance, as when 
I heard that so amiable and accomplished a 
piece of God's work was no more. I have, 
as yet, gone no farther than the following 
fragment, of which please let me have your 
opinion. You know that elegy is a subject 
80 much exhausted, that any new idea on 
the business is not to be expected : 'tis well 



if we can place an old idea in a new light. 
How far I have succeeded as to this last, you 
will judge from what follows : — * • 

I have proceeded no farther. 

Your kind letter, with your kind remein. 
hrance of your godson, came safe. 'J'his last, 
]\Iadam, is scarcely what my pride can bear. 
As to the little fellow, he is, partiality apart, 
the finest boy I have for a long time seen. 
He is now seventeen months old, has the 
small-pox and measles over, has cut several 
teeth, and never had a grain of doctors' 
drugs in his bowels. 

1 am truly happy to hear that the "little 
flow'ret" is blooming so fresh and fair, and 
that the "mother plant" is rather recovering 
her drooping head. Soon and well may her 
" cruel wounds" be healed ! I have written 
thus far with a good deal of difficulty. 
When I get a little abler, you shall hear 
farther firom. Madam, yours, R.. B. 



NO. CCXVII. 

TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON. 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, 
Feb.Uth, 1791. 

Sir — You must, by this time, have set 
me down as one of the most ungrateful of 
men. You did me the honour to present 
me with a book, which does honour to 
science and the intellectual powers of man, 
and I have not even so much as acknow- 
ledged the receipt of it. The fact is, you 
yourself are to blame for it. Flattered as I 
was by your telling me that you wished to 
have my opinion of the work, the old 
spiritual enemy of mankind, who knows 
well that vanity is one of the sins that most 
easily beset me, put it into my head to 
ponder over the performance with the look- 
out of a critic, and to draw up, forsoutli, a 
deep learned digest of strictures on a com- 
position, of which, in fact, until I read die 
book, I did not even know the first iinu- 
ciples. I own. Sir, that at first ghince 
several of your propositions startled me as 
paradoxical. That the martial clangor of a 
trumpet had something in it vastly more 
grand, heroic, and sublime, than the twingle 
twangle of a Jew's harp : that the delicate 
flexure of a rose-twig, when the hali-blnwu 
flower is heavy with the tears of the dawn, 
was infinitely more beautiful and elegant 
than the upright stub of a burdock ; and 
that from sometliiug innate and independent 



33 



372 



COERESPONDENCE OF BUENS. 



of afl associations of ideas — these I had set 
down as irrefragable, ortliodox truths, until 
perusing your book shook my faith. In 
short. Sir, except Euclid's Elements of 
Geometry, which I made a shift to unravel 
by my father's fireside, in the winter even- 
ings of the first season I held the plough, I 
never read a book which gave me such a 
quantum of information, and added so much 
to my stock of ideas, as your " Essays on 
the Principles of Taste." One thing. Sir, 
you must forgive my mentioning as an 
uncommon merit in the work — I mean the 
language. To clothe abstract philosophy in 
elegance of style sounds something like a 
contradiction in terms ; but you have con- 
vinced me that they are quite compatible. 

I enclose you some poetic bagatelles of 
my late composition. The one in print is 
my first essay in the way of telling a tale. 
I am, Sir, &c R. B. (118) 



NO. CCXVIII. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Ellisland, Feb. 28th, 1791. 

I DO not know. Sir, whether you are a 
subscriber to Grose's Antiquities of Scot- 
land. If you are, the enclosed poem will 
not be altogether new to you. Captain 
Grose did me the favour to send me a 
dozen copies of the proof sheet, of which 
this is one. Should you have read the piece 
before, still this will answer the principal 
end I have in view — it will give me another 
opportunity of thanking you for all your 
goodness to the rustic bard ; and also of 
showing you, that the abilities you have 
been pleased to commend and patronise are 
still employed in the way you wish. 

The Eleyy on Captain Henderson is a 
tribute to the memory of a man I loved 
much. Poets have in this the same advan- 
tage as Roman Catholics ; they can be of 
service to their friends after they have 
passed that bourne where all other kindness 
ceases to be of avail. Whether, after all, 
either the one or the other be of any real 
service to the dead, is, I fear, very proble- 
matical, but I am sure they are highly 
gratifying to the living : and as a very 
orthodox text, I forget where in Scripture, 
says, " whatsoever is not of faith is sin ;" 
so say T, whatsoever is not detrimental to 
society, and is of positive enjoyment, is of 



God, the giver of all good things, and ought 
to be received and enjoyed by his creatures 
with thankful delight. As almost all my 
religious tenets originate from my heart, I 
am wonderfully pleased with the idea, that I 
can still keep up a tender intercourse with 
the dearly beloved friend, or still more dearly 
beloved mistress, who is gone to the world 
of spirits. 

The ballad on Gueen Mary was begun 
while I was busy with Percy's Reliqucs of 
English Poetry. By the way, how much is 
every honest heart, which has a tincture of 
Caledonian prejudice, obliged to you for your 
glorious story of Buchanan and Targe ! 
'Twas an unequivocal proof of your loyal 
gallantry of soul, giving Targe the victory 
I should have been mortified to the ground 
if you had not. 

I have just read over once more of many 
times, your Zeiuco. I marked with my 
pencil, as I went along, every passage that 
pleased me particularly above the rest ; and 
one or two, which, with humble deference, I 
am disposed to think unequal to the merits 
of the book. I have sometimes thought to 
transcribe these marked passages, or at least 
so much of them as to point where they are, 
and send them to you. Original strokes 
that strongly depict the human heart, is 
your and Fielding's province, beyond any 
other novelist I have ever perused. Richard- 
son indeed might, perhaps, be excepted ; but 
unhappily, his dramatis persona are beings 
of another world ; and however they may 
captivate the inexperienced, romantic fancy 
of a boy or a girl, they will ever, in propor- 
tion as we have made human nature our 
study, dissatisfy our riper years. 

As to my private concerns, I am going on, 
a mighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and 
have lately had the interest to get myself 
ranked on the list of Excise as a supervisor. 
I am not yet employed as such, but in a few 
years I shall fall into the file of supervisor- 
ship by seniority. I have had an immense 
loss in the death of the Earl of Glencairn, 
the patron from whom all my fame and 
fortune took its rise. Independent of my 
grateful attachment to him, which was 
indeed so strong that it pervaded my very 
soul, and was entwined with the thread of 
my existence : so soon as the prince's friends 
had got in (and every dog you know has his 
day), my getting forward in the Excise would 
have been an easier business than otherwise 
it will be. Though this was a consumma- 
tion devoutly to be wished, yet, thank 
Heaven, I can live and rhyme as I am ; and 
as to my boys, poor little fellows! if J 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 



57:< 



cannot place them on as high an elevation in 
life as I could wish, I shall, if I am favoured 
80 much by the Disposer of events as to see 
that period, fix them on as broad and inde- 
pendent a basis as possible. Among the 
many wise adages which have been treasured 
up by our Scottish ancestors, this is one of 
the best — Better he the head o' the com- 
monalty, than the tail o' the gentry. 

But I am got on a subject which, however 
interesting to me, is of no manner of con- 
sequence to you ; so I shall give you a short 
poem on the other page, and close this with 
assuring you how sincerely I have the honour 
to be, yours, &c. B. B. 



NO. ccxix. 
TO MRS. GRAHAM, 

OF FINTRY. 

Ellislaml, 1791. 

Madam — ^\Mxether it is that the story of 
our Mary Queen of Scots has a peculiar 
effect on the feelings of a poet, or whether I 
have in the enclosed ballad succeeded beyond 
ray usual poetic success, I know not ; but it 
has pleased me beyond any effort of my 
muse for a good while pa^t ; on that account, 
I enclose it particularly to you. It is true, 
the purity of my motives may be suspected. 
I am already deeply indebted to Mr. Graham's 
goodness; and what, in the usual ways of 
men, is of infinitely greater importance, 
Mr. G. can do me service of the utmost 
importance in time to come. I was born a 
poor dog ; and, however I may occasionally 
pick a better bone than I used to do, I know 
I must hve and die poor : but I will indulge 
the flattering faith that my poetry will con- 
siderably outlive my poverty ; and without 
auy fustian affectation of spirit, I can pro- 
mise and affirm, that it must be no ordinary 
craving of the latter shall ever make me do 
any tiling injurious to the honest fame of 
the former. Whatever may be my failings — 
for failings are a part of human nature — may 
they ever be those of a generous heart and 
an independent mind I It is no fault of 
mine that I was born to dependence, nor is 
it .Mr. Graham's chiefcst praise that he can 
command influence: but it is his merit to 
bestow, not only with the kindness of a 
brother, but with the politeness of a gentle- 
man ; and I trust it shall be mine to receive 
with thankfulness, and remember A'ith un- 
diminished {gratitude. R. B. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, March I2th. 1791. 

Ip the foregoing piece be worth your 
strictures, let me have them. For my own 
part, a thing that I have just composed 
always appears through a double portion of 
that partial medium in which an author will 
ever view his own works. I believe, in 
general, novelty has something in it that 
inebriates the fancj', and not unfreqnently 
dissipates and fumes away like other intoxi- 
cation, and leaves the poor patient, as usual, 
with an aching heart. A striking instaiic3 
of this might be adduced, in the revolution 
of many a hymeneal honey-moon. But lest 
I sink into stupid prose, and so sacrilegiously 
intrude on the office of my parish priest, I 
shall fill up the page in my own way, and 
give you another song of my late composition, 
which will appear perhaps in Johnson's 
work, as well as the former. 

You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, 
"There'll never be peace till Jamie comes 
hame." When political combustion ceases 
to be the object of princes and patriots, it 
then, you know, becomes the lawful prey of 
historians and poets. 

" By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was 

grey ; 
And as he was singing, the tears fast down 

came — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes 

hame," &c. 

If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit 
your fancy, you cannot imagine, my dear 
friend, how much you would oblige me, if, 
by the charms of your delightful voice, you 
would give my honest effusion to " the 
memory of joys that are past," to the few 
friends whom you indulge in that pleasure. 
But I have scribbled on till I hear the clock 
has intimated the near approach of 

" That hour, o' night's black arch the key- 
stane." 

So, good night to you I Sound be your 
sleep, and delectable your dreams! A-propos, 
how do you like this thought in a ballad I 
have just now on the tapis ? 

I look to the west when I gae to rest. 
That happy my dreams and my sliimbcrsi 
may be ; 
Far, far m the west is he I loe best. 



374 



CORRESPONDRXrK OF BTTTtV<3. 



'Die lad that is dear to my babie and 
me! 
Good night once more, and God bless 
you ! R- B. 



NO. ccxxi. 
TO MR. ALEXANDER DALZEL (119), 

FACTOR, FINDLAYSTON. 

EUisland, March IQlh, 1791. 

My Dear Sir — I have taken the liberty 
to frank this letter to you, as it encloses an 
idle poem ot mine, whicli I send you; and, 
God knows, you may perhaps pay dear 
enong-h for it, if you read it through. Not 
that this is my own opinion : but the 
author, by the time he has composed and 
corrected his work, has quite pored away 
all his powers of critical discrimination. 

1 can easily guess, from my own heart, 
what you have felt on a late most melan- 
choly event. God knows what I have 
suffered at the loss of my best friend, luy 
first and dearest patron and benefactor ; the 
man to whom 1 owe all that I am and have ! 
1 am gone into mourning for him, and with 
more sincerity of grief than I fear some will, 
who, by nature's ties, ought to feel on the 
occasion. 

I will be exceedingly obliged to you, 
indeed, to let me know the news of the 
noble family, how the poor mother and the 
two sisters support their loss. I had a 
packet of poetic bagatelles ready to send to 
Lady Betty, when I saw the fatal tiduigs 
in the newspaper. 1 see, by the same 
channel, that the honoured remains of my 
noble patron are designed to be brought 
to the family burial-place. Dare I trouble 
you to let me know privately before the day 
of interment, that I may cross the country, 
and steal among the crowd, to pay a tear 
to the last sight of my ever revered bene- 
factor ! It will oblige me beyond expres- 
•ioii. K B. 



NO. ccxxii. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

EUisland, April Wth, 1791. 
1 AM once more able, my honoured 
friend, to return you with my own hand, 
thanks for the many instances of your 



friendship, and particularly for your kind 
anxiety in this last disaster that my evil 
genius had in store for me. However, life 
is chequered — joy and sorrow — for ou 
Saturday morning last, Mrs. Burns made 
me a present of a fine boy ; rather stouter, 
but not so handsome as your godson was 
at this time of life. Indeed, I look on your 
little namesake to be my chef d'ceuvre in 
tiiat species of manufacture, as I look on 
"Tam o' Shanter "to be my standard per- 
formance in the poetical line. 'Tis true, 
both the one and the other discover a spice 
of roguish waggery, that might perhaps be 
as well spared ; but then they also show, in 
my opinion, a force of genius, and a finish- 
ing polish, that I despair of ever excelling. 
Mrs. Burns is getting stout again, and laid 
as lustily about her to-day at breakfast, as 
a reaper from the corn-ridge. That is the 
peculiar privilege and blessing of our hale, 
sprightly damsels, that are bred among the 
hay and heather. (120) We cannot hope 
for that highly polished mind, that charming 
delicacy of soul, which is found among the 
female world in the more elevated stations 
of life, and which is certainly by far the 
most bewitching charm in the famous cestus 
of Venus. It is indeed such an inestimable 
treasure, that where it can be had in its 
native heavenly purity, unstained by some 
one or other of the many shades of affect- 
tion, and unalloyed by some one or other of 
the many species of caprice, I declare to 
Heaven I should think it cheaply purchased 
at the expense of every other earthly good ! 
But as this angelic creature is, I am afraid, 
extremely rare in any station and rank of 
life, and totally denied to such an humble 
one as mine, we meaner mortals must put 
up with the next rank of female excellence ; 
as fine a figure and face we can produce as 
any rank of life whatever ; rustic, native 
grace ; imalTected modesty and unsullied 
purity ; nature's mother-wit, and the rudi- 
ments of taste; a simplicity of soul, unsus- 
picious of, because unacquainted with, the 
crooked ways of a selfish, interested, disin- 
genuous world ; and the dearest charm of all 
the rest, a yielding sweetness of disposition, 
and a generous warmth of heart, grateful 
for love on our part, and ardently glowing 
with a more than equal return ; these, with 
a healthy frame, a sound vigorous constitu- 
tion, which your higlier ranks can scarcely 
ever hope to enjoy, are the charms of lovely 
woman in my humble walk of life. 

This is the greatest effort my broken arm 
has yet made. Do let me hear, by first post, 
how dipr n»'it T\tn>i.<tieiir Cl'?ll ct>ip< on 



TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 



375 



with his small-pox. Jlay Almighty j^oodness 
preserve and restore him ! R. B. 



NO. CCXXIIl. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

June nth, 1791. 

Let me interest you, my dear Cunning- 
ham, in belialf of the gentleman who waits 
on you with this. He is a Mr. Clarke, of 
Muffat, principal schoolmaster there, and is 
nt present suffering severely under the perse- 
cution of one or two powerful individuals of 
his employers. He is accused of harshness 
to hoys that were placed under his care. 
God help the teacher, if a man of sensibility 
and genius, and such is my friend Clarke, 
when a booby father presents him with his 
booby son, and insists on lighting up the 
rays of science in a fellow's head whose 
skull is impervious and inaccessible by any 
other way than a positive fracture with a 
cudgel — a fellow, whom, in fact, it savours of 
impiety to attempt making a schol.ir of, as 
he has been marked a blockhead in the book 
of fate, at the Almighty fiat of his Creator. 

Tiie patrons of Moffat-school are the 
ministers, magistrates, and town-council of 
Edinburgh, and as the business comes now 
before them, let me beg my dearest friend to 
do everything in his power to serve the in- 
terests of a man of genius and worth, and a 
man whom I particularly respect and esteem. 
You know some good fellows among the ma- 
gistracy and council, but particularly you 
have much to say with a rev&rend gentle- 
man, to wlnm you have the honour of being 
very nearly related, and whom this country 
and age have had the honour to produce. I 
need not name the historian of Charles V. 
(122) I tell liim, through the medium of his 
nephew's luHueuce, that Air. Clarke is a 
gentleman who will not disgrace even his 
patronage. I know the merits of the cause 
thoroughly, and say it, that ray friend is 
falling a sacriHce to prejudiced ignorance. 

God help the children of dependence ! 
Hated and persecuted by their enemies, and 
too ofceu, alas ! almost unexceptionably, re- 
ceived by their friends with disrespect and 
reproach, uiKier the thiu disguise of cold 
civility and humiliating advice. Oh I to be 
a sturdy savage, stalking in the pride of his 
independence, amid the solitary wilds of his 
deserts, rather than in civilized life helplessly 
to tremble for a subsistence, precarious aa 
tiie caprice of a fellow-creature ! Every 
man ha-s his virtues, and no man is without 



his failings ; and curse on that privileged 
plain-dealing of friendship, which, in the 
hour of my calamity, cannot reach forth the 
helping hand, without, at the same time, 
pointing out those failings, and apportioning 
them their share in procuring my present 
distress. My friends, for such the world 
calls ye, and such ye think yourselves to be, 
pass by my virtues if you ])lease, but do, 
also, spare my follies — the first will witness 
in my breast for themselves, and the last 
will give pain enough to the ingenuous mind 
without you. And since deviating more or 
less from the paths of propriety and recti- 
tude must be incident to human nature, do 
thou. Fortune, put it in my power, always 
from myself, and of myself, to bear the con- 
sequence of those errors ! I do not want to 
be independent that I may sin, but I want to 
be independent in ray sinning. 

To return in this rambling letter to the 
subject I set out with, let me recommend ray 
friend, Mr. Clarke, to your acquaintance and 
good offices ; his worth entitles him to the 
one, and his gratitud" will merit the other. 
I long much to hear from you. Adieu. 



NO. ccxxiv. 



TO THE E.VRL OF BUCHAN. 

Ellislaud, 1791. 

My Lord — Language sinks under the 
ardour of my feelings, when I wou'd thank 
your lordship for the honour you have done 
me in inviting me to make one at the coro- 
nation of the bust of 'I'liomson. In my first 
enthusiasm in reading the card you did me 
the honour to write me, I overlooked every 
obstacle, and determined to go ; but I fear it 
will not be in my power. A week or two's 
absence in the very middle of ray harvest, is 
what I much doubt 1 d.ire not venture on. 
I once already made a pilgrimage up the 
whole course of the Tiveed, and fondly 
would I take the same delightful journey 
down the windings of that delightful stream. 

Your lordship hints at an ode for the 
occasion ; but who would write after Collins? 
I read over his verses to the memory of 
Thomson, and despaired. I got indeed to the 
length of three or four stanzas, in the way 
of adilress to the shade of the bard, ou 
crowning his bust. I shall trouble your 
lordship with the subjoined copy of them, 
which, 1 am afraid, will be but too con- 
vincing a proof how unequal 1 am to the 
task. However.it alTords me an opportuiiify 



376 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



of approaching vour lordship, and declaring 
how sincerely and gratefully I have the 
honour to be, &c. B. B. 



KO. ccxxv. 



TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM. (123) 

My Lady — I would, as usual, have 
availed myself of the privilege your goodness 
has allowed me, of sending you anything I 
compose in my poetical way ; but, as I have 
resolved, so soon as the shock of my irre- 
parable loss would allow me, to pay a 
tribute to my late benefactor, I determined 
to make that the tirst piece I should do 
myself the honour of sending you. Had 
the wing of my fancy been equal to the 
ardour of my heart, the enclosed had been 
much more worthy your perusal : as it is, 
I beg leave to lay it at your ladyship's 
feet. (124) As all the world knows my 
obligations to the late Earl of Glencairn ; I 
would wish to show, as openly, that my heart 
glows, and shall ever glow, with the most 
grateful sense and remembrance of his lord- 
ship's goodness. The sables I did myself 
the honour to wear to his lordship's 
memory, were not the " mockery of woe." 
Nor shall my gratitude perish with me ! If, 
among my children, I shall have a son that 
has a heart, he shall hand it down to his 
child as a family honour, and a family debt, 
that my dearest existence I owe to the 
noble house of Glencairn ! 

I was about to say, my lady, that if you 
think the poem may venture to see the 
light, I would, iu some way or other, give it 
to the world. R. B. 



KO. ccxxvi. 



TO MR. THOMAS SLOAN. 

EUisIand, Sept. 1st, 1791. 

My Dear Sloan — Suspense is worse 
than disappointment; for that reason, I 
hurry to tell you that I just now learn that 
Mr. Ballantnie does not chose to interfere 
more in the business. 1 am truly sorry for 
it, but cannot help it. 

You blame me for not writing you sooner, 
but you will please to recollect that you 
omitted one little necessary piece of infor- 
mation — your address. 

However, you know equally well my hur- 
lied life, indoleut temper, and strength of 



attachment. It must be a longer period 
than the longest life " in the world's bald 
and undegenerate days," that will make me 
forget so dear a friend as Mr. Sloan. I am 
prodigal enough at times, but I will not part 
with such a treasure as that. 

I can easily enter into the embarras ol 
your present situation. You know ray 
favourite quotation from I'^oung : — 

" On reason build Resolve ! 

That column of true majesty in man." 
And that other favourite one from Thom- 
son's Alfred : — 

" What proves the hero truly great. 
Is, ne\'er, never to despair." 
Or, shall I quote you an author of your 
acquaintance ? 

" Whether doing, suffering, or 

forbearing. 
You may do miracles — by persevering." 

I have nothing new to tell you. The few 
friends we have are going on in the old way. 
I sold my crop on this day se'nnight, and 
sold it very well. A guinea an acre, on an 
average, above value. But such a scene of 
drunkenness was hardly ever seen iu this 
country. After the roup was over, about 
thirty peopl^ engaged in a battle, every man 
for ins own hand, and fought it out for 
three hours. Nor was the scene much better 
in the house. No fighting, indeed, but folks 
lying drunk on the floor, and decanting, 
until both my dogs got so drunk by attend- 
ing them, that they could not stand. You 
will easily guess how I enjoyed the scene, as 
I was no farther off than you used to see 
me. 

j\Irs. B. and fiimily have been in Ayrshire 
these many weeks. 

Farewell ! and God bless you, my dear 
friend 1 E. B 



NO. CCXVU. 



TO COLONEL FULLARTON, 

OF FULLARTON. (125) 

Ellislund, Oct. 3rd, 1791. 

Sir — I have just this minute got the 
frank, and next minute must send it to post, 
else I purposed to have sent you two or 
three other bagatelles that might have amused 
a vacant hour, about as well as " Six excel- 
lent new Songs," or the "Aberdeen prognos- 
tications for the year to come." (126j 1 shall 
probably trouble you soon with anr:biei 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



377 



packet, about the gloomy month of Novem- 
per, when the people of England hang and 
drown themselves — anything, generally, is 
better than one's own thoughts. 

Fond as I may be of my own productions, 
it is not for their sake that I am so anxious to 
scu.l you them. I am ambitious, covetously 
anliitious, of being known to a gentleman 
whom I ara proud to call my countryman 
(1 .'/); a gentleman, who was a foreign ambas- 
sid jr as soon as he was a man ; and a 
ieaiier of armies as soon as he was a soldier ; 
and that with an eclat unknown to the usual 
minions of a court — men who, with all the 
adventitious advantages of princely connec- 
tions, and princely fortunes, must yet, like 
the caterpillar, labour a whole lifetime before 
they reach the wished-for height, there to 
roost a stupid chrysalis, and doze out the 
remaining glimmering existence of old age. 

If the gentleman that accompanied you 
when you did me the honour of calling on 
me, is with you, I beg to be respectfully 
remembered to him. I have the honour to 
be, your highly obliged and most devoted 
humble servant, II. B. 



NO. CCXXVIll. 

TO MISS DAVIES. (128) 

It is impossible, Madam, that the generous 
warmth and angelic purity of your youthful 
mind can have any idea of that moral disease 
under which I unhappily must rank as the 
chief of sinners ; I mean a torpitude of the 
moral powers, that may be called a lethargy 
of con.science. In vain. Remorse rears her 
horrent crest, and rouses all her snakes : 
beneath the deadly fixed eye and leaden hand 
of Indolence, their wildest ire is charmed 
into the torpor of the bat, slumbering out 
the rigours of winter in the chink of a ruined 
wall. Nothing les«. Madam, could have 
made me so long neglect your obliging com- 
mands. Indeed, I had one apology — the 
bagatelle was not worth presenting. Besides, 
80 strongly am I interested iu Miss Davies's 
fate and welfare in the serious business of 
life, amid its chances and changes, that to 
make her the subject of a silly ballad is 
downright mockery of these ardent feelings ; 
'tis like an impertinent jest to a dying friend. 

Grai-ious llcaven ! why this disparity 
between our wishes and our powers ? Why 
is the most generous wish to make others 
blest, impotent and ineffectual, as the idle 
breese that crosses the pathless desert ? lu 



my walks of life I have met with a few peo. 
pie to whom how gladly would I have said, 
" Go ! be happy ! I know that your hearts 
have been wounded by the scorn of the 
proud, whom accident has placed above you 
— or, worse still, in whose hands are perhaps 
placed many of the comforts of your life. 
But there ! asceiul that rock, Iiule|)endi'nce, 
and look justly <lo«n on their littleness of 
soul. Make the worthless tremble under 
your indignation, and the foolish sink before 
your contempt; and largely impart that 
happiness to others, which, I am certani, 
will give yourselves so much pleasure to 
bestow." 

Why, dear Madam, must I wake from this 
delightful reverie, and find it all a dream? 
Why, amid my generous enthusiasm, must 
1 find myself poor and powerless, incapable 
of wiping one tear from the eye of Pity, or 
of adding one comfort to the friend 1 love ! 
Oat upon the world ! say I, that its affairs 
are administered so ill! They talk of 
reform; good Heaven! what a reform would 
I make among the sons, and even the daugh- 
ters of men ! Down, immediately should 
go fools from the high places where mis- 
begotten chance has perked them up, and 
through life should they skulk, ever haunted 
by their native insignificance, as the body 
marches accompanied by its shadow. As 
for a much more formidable class, the 
knaves, I am at a loss what to do with 
them : had I a world, there should not be a 
knave in it. 

But the hand that could give, I would 
liberally fill : and I would pour delight ou 
the heai t that could kindly forgive, and gene- 
rously love. 

Still, the inequalities of life are, among 
men, comparatively tolerable ; but there is 
a delicacy, a tenderness, accompanying 
every view in which we can place lovely 
woman, that are grated and shocked at the 
rude, capricious distinctions of Fortune. 
Woman is the blood-royal of life : let there 
be slight degrees of precedency among thei? 
— but let them be all sacred. Whetiier 
this last sentiment be right or wrong, I ain 
not accountable ; it is an original compo- 
nent feature of my mind. R. B. 



NO. ccxxix. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Ellhland, December nth, 1791 
^Iany thanks to yon. Madam, for your 
good news respecting the bttle floweret aw} 



378 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



tlie mother plant. 1 hope ray poetic prayers 
liave been heard, and will be answered up to 
the warmest sincerity of their fullest extent; 
and then Mrs. Henri will find her little 
darliuij the representative of his late parent, 
in every thing but his abriJ,i;ed existence. 

I have just finished the following song, 
which, to a lady, the descendant of Wallace, 
and many heroes of his truly illustrious 
line — and herself the mother of several 
soldiers— needs neither preface nor apo- 
logy. 

[Here follows the " Song of Death."'] 

The circum-tance that gave rise to the 
foregoing verses, was — looking over with a 
musical fiieud, JI'Donald's collection of 
Highland airs, I was struck with one, an 
Isle of Skye tune, entitled " (Jran an Aoig," 
or the " Song of Death," to the measure of 
which I have adapted my stanzas. I have, 
of late, composed two or three other little 
pieces, which, ere yon full-orbed moon, 
whose broad impudent face now stares at 
old mother earth all night, shall have 
shrunk into a modest crescent, just peeping 
forth at dewy dawn, I shall find an hour to 
transcribe to you. A Dieu je vous corn- 
mende. R. B. 



NO. CCXXX. 

TO MR. AINSLIE. 

Ellidand, 1791. 

My dear Ainslie — Can you minister 
to a mind diseased ? — can you, amid the 
horrors of penitence, regret, remorse, head- 
ache, nausea, and all the rest of the d 

hounds of hell, that beset a poor wretch who 
has been guilty of the sin of drunkenness — 
can you speak peace to a troubled soul ? 

Miserable perdu that I am, I have tried 
every thing that used to amuse me, but in 
vain : here must I sit, a monument of the 
vengeance laid up in store for the wicked, 
slowly counting every tick of the clock, as it 
slowly, slowly, numbers over these lazy 
scoundrels of hours, who, » » * *_ are 
ranked up before me, every one following 
his neighbour, and every one with a burden 
of anguish on his back, to pour on iny 
devoted head — and there is none to pity 
me. My wife scolds me, my business tor- 
ments me, and my sins come staring me in 
the face, every one telling a more bitter 
tale than his fellow. When I tell you even 
• • * has lost its power to please, you 



will guess something of my hell within and 
all around me. I began Elibanks and 
Elihraes, but the stanzas fell unen- 
joyed and unfinished from my listless 
tongue : at last I luckily thought of reading 
over an old letter of yours, that lay by me, 
in my book-case, and 1 felt something, for 
for the first time since I opened my eyes, ot 

pleasurable existence. Well — I begin to 

breathe a little since I began to write to 
you ? How are you, and what are you 
doing. How goes law? A-propos, for 
cinnexion's sake, do not address to me 
supervisor, for that is an honour I cannot 
pretend to ; I am on the list, as we call it, 
for a supervisor, and will be called out, by 
and bye, to act as one; but at, present, I am 
a simple guager, tho' t'other day I got an 
ap|)ointment to an Excise division of £25 per 
annum better thin the rest. My present 
income, down money, is £70 per annum. 

I have one or two good fellows here, 
whom you would be glad to know. 

R. B. 



NO. CCXXXI. 

TO 



Ellisland, 1791. 

Tnou eunuch of language; thou English- 
man, who never was south the 'i'weed ; thou 
servile echo of fashionable barbarisms ; thou 
quack, vending the nostrums of empirie.d 
elocution ; thou marriage-iuiiker between 
vowels and consonants, on the Gretna (ireen 
of caprice; thou cobbler, botching the flimsy 
socks of bombast oratory ; thou blacksmith, 
hammering the rivets of absurdity ; thou 
butcher, enibruing thy hands in the bowels 
of orthography ; thou arch-heritic in pro- 
nunciation ; thou pitch pipe of affected 
emphasis; thou carpenter, mortising the 
awkward joints of jarring sentences ; thou 
squeaking dissonance of cadence; thou pimp 
of gender; thou Lion Herald to silly ety- 
mology ; thou antipode of grammar ; thou 
executioner of construction; thou brood of 
the speech-distracting builders of the Tower 
of Babel ; thou lingual confusion worse con- 
founded ; thou scape-gallows from the land 
of syntax ; thou scavenger of mood and 
tense ; thou murderous accoucheur of infant 
learning; thou ii/nis fatuns, misleading the 
steps of benighted ignorance ; thou pickle- 
herring in the pujipet-show of nonsense ; 
thou faithful recorder of barbarous idiom ; 
thou persecutor of syllabication ; tliou baleful 



TO ME. "WM. NICOL. 



379 



meteor, foretelling and facilitating the rapid 
approach of Nox and Erebus. R. B. 



NO. CCXXXH. 



TO FRANCIS GROSE. Esq. F.S.A. (129) 

Dumfries, 1792. 

Sir — I believe among all our Scots literati 
you have not met with Professor Dugald 
Stewart, who fills the moral philosophy chair 
in the University of Edinburgh. To say 
that he is a man of the first parts, and, wliat 
is more, a man of the first worth, to a gen- 
tleman of your general acquaintance, and 
who so much enjoys the luxury of unencum- 
bered freedom and undisturbed privacy, is 
uot, perhaps, recommendation enough ; but 
when I inform you that Mr. Stewart's prin- 
cipal characteristic is your favourite feature 
• — tliut sterling independence of mind, which, 
though every man's right, so few men have 
the courage to claim, and fewer still the 
magudniniity to support: when I tell you, 
that unseduced by splendour, and undis- 
gusted by wretcliedness, he appreciates the 
merits of the various actors in the great 
drama of life, merely as they perform their 
parts — in short, he is a man after your own 
heart, and I comply with his earnest request 
in letting you know that he wishes above all 
things to meet with you. His house, Catrine, 
is within less than a mile of Sorn Castle, 
which you proposed visiting; or if you could 
transmit him the enclosed, he would, with 
the greatest pleasure, meet you any where 
iu the neighbourhood. I write to Ayrshire 
to inform Mr. Stewart that I have acquitted 
myself of my promise. Should your time 
and spirits permit your meeting with Mr. 
Stewart, 'tis well ; if not, I hope you will 
forgive this liberty, and 1 have, at least, an 
opportunity of assuring you with what truth 
and respect I am. Sir, your great admirer, 
and very humble servant, R. B. 



NO. CCXXXIII. 

TO MR. WILLIAM SMELI.IE, 



Dumfries, January 22nd, 1792. 

I SIT down, my dear Sir, to introduce a 
young lady to you, and a lady in the first 
ranks of fashion, too. What a task ! to 
you — who care no more for the herd of 
animals called yomig ladies, than you do for 



the herd of animals called young gentlemeu. 
To you — who despise and detest the group- 
ings and combinations of fashion, as an idiot 
painter that seems industrious to jilace 
staring fools and miprincipled knaves in the 
foreground of his picture, while men of 
sense and honesty are too often thrown in 
the dimmest sluules. Mrs. Riddel (1.30), 
who will take this letter to town with her, 
and send it to you, is a character that, even 
in your own way, as a naturalist and a phi- 
losopher, would be an acquisition to your 
acquaintance. The lady, too, is a votary of 
the muses ; and as I think myself somewhat 
of a judge in my own trade, I assure you 
that her verses, always correct, and often 
elegant, are much beyond tlie common run 
of the ladij-poetesses of the day. She is a 
great admirer of your book (131) ; and 
hearing me say that I was acquainted with 
you, she begged to be known to you, as she 
is just going to pay her first visit to our 
Caledonian capital. I told her that her best 
way was, to desire her near relation, and 
your intimate friend, Craigdarroch, to have 
you at liis house while she was there ; and 
lest you might think of a lively West Indian 
girl of eighteen, as girls of eighteen too often 
deserve to be thought of, I should take care 
to remove that prejudice. To be impartial, 
however, in appreciating the lady's merits, 
she has one unlucky failing— a failing which 
you will e.isily discover, as she seems rather 
pleased with indulging in it — and a failing 
that you will easily pardon, as it is a sin 
which very much besets yourself — where she 
dislikes, or despises, she is apt to make no 
more a secret of it than where she esteems 
and respects. 

I will not present you with the unmeaning 
compliments of the season, but I will send 
you my wannest wishes and most ardent 
prayers, that Fortune may never throw 
your SUBSISTENCE to the mercy of a 
KNAVE, or set your character on the 
judgment of a fool ; but that, upright and 
erect, you may walk to an honest grave, 
where men of letters shall say, " Here lies a 
man vi'ho did honour to science," and men of 
worth shall say, " Here lies a man who did 
honour to human nature." R. B. 



NO. CCXXXIV. 

TO MR. WM. NICOK 

February 20th, 1792. 
Oil, thou wisest among the wise, meridia;< 
blaze of prudence, fuP moon o' discreMon, 



380 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS 



ami chief of many counsellors ! (132) lluw 
infinitely is thy puddle-headed, rattle-headed, 
wrong-headed, roiuid-headed slave indelited 
to thy super-eminent goodness, that, from 
the luminous path of thy own right-lined 
rectitude, thou lookest henigidy down on an 
erring wretch, of whom the zig-zag wander- 
ings defy all the powers of calcuhition, from 
the simple copulation of units, up to the 
liidden mysteries of fluxions ! May one 
feehle ray of that light of wisdom which 
darts from thy sensorium, straight as the 
arrow of Heaven, and bright as the meteor 
of inspiration, may it be my portion, so that 
I may be less unworthy of the face and 
favour of that father of proverbs, and master 
of maxims, that antipode of folly, and mag- 
net among the sages, the wise and witty 
Willie Nicol! Amen! Amen! Yea, so be it! 

For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and know 
nothing ! From the cave of ray ignorance, 
amid the fogs of my duhiess, and pestilen- 
tial fumes of my political heresies, I look up 
to thee, as doth a toad through the iron- 
barred lucerne of a pestiferous dungeon, to 
the cloudless glory of a summer sun ! 
Sorely sighing in bitterness of soul, I say, 
when shall my name be the quotation of the 
wise, and my countenance be the delight of 
the godly, like the illustrious lord of Laggan's 
many hills? (133) As for him, his works 
are perfect — never did the pen of calumny 
blur the fair page of his reputation, nor the 
bolt of liatred fly at his dwelling. 

'Ihou nnrror of purity, when shall the 
elrtne lamp of my glimmerous understanding, 
purged from sensual appetites and gross 
desires, shine like the constellation of thy 
intellectual powers ! As for thee, thy 
thoughts are pure, and thy lips are holy. 
Never did tlie vinhallowed breath of the 
powers of darkness, and the pleasures of 
darkness, pollute the sacred flame of thy 
sky-desceiided and heaven-bound desires ; 
never did tlie vapours of impurity stain the 
unclouded serene of thy cerulean imagination. 
Oh, ttiat like thine were the tenor of my life, 
like thine the tenor of my conversation ! — 
then should no friend fear for my strength, 
no enemy rejoice in my weakness ! Then, 
should I lie down and rise up, and none to 
make me afraid. iNlay thy pity and thy 
prayer be exercised for, oh thou lamp of 
wisdom and mirror of morality ! thy devoted 
slave, £. B. 



NO. CCXXXV. 

TO FRANCIS GROSE, Esa., F.SA. 
Dumfries, 1792. 

Among the many witch stories I have 
heard, relating to Alloway kirk, I distinctly 
remeinher only two or three. 

L'pon a stormy night, amid whistling 
squalls of wind, and bitter blasts of hail — 
in short, on such a night as the devil would 
choose to take the cir in — a fanner, or 
farmer's servant, was plo;ldiiig and plashing 
homeward with his plough-irons on hia 
shoulder, having been getting some repairs 
on thein at a neighbouring smithy. His 
way lay by the kirk of Alloway ; and being 
rather on the anxious look-out in approach- 
ing a place so well known to be a favourite 
haunt of the devil, and the devil's friends 
and emissaries, he had been struck aghast, 
by discovering through the horrors of the 
storm and stormy night, a light, which on 
his nearer approach plainly showed itself to 
proceed from the haunted edifice. Whether 
he had been fortified from above, on his 
devout supplication, as is customary with 
people when they suspect the immediate 
presence of Satan, or whether, according to 
another custom, he had got courageously 
drunk at the smithy, I wdl not pretend to 
determine ; but, so it was, that he ventured 
to go up to, nay, into the very kirk. As 
luck would have it, his temerity came off 
unpunished. 

The members of the infernal junto were 
all out on some midnight business or other, 
and he saw nothing but a kind of kettle or 
caldron, depending from the roof, over the 
fire, simmering some heads of unchristened 
children, limbs of executed malefactors, &c., 
for the business of the night. It was, m 
for a penny, in for a pound, with the honest 
ploughman : so without ceremony he un- 
hooked the caldron from off the fire, anil, 
pouring out the damnable ingredients, 
inverted it on his head, and carried it fairly 
home, where it remained long in the faiuily, 
a living evidence of the trnth of the story. 

Another story, which I can prove to be 
equally aulhentic, was as follows : — 

On a market day in the town of Ayr, a 
farmer from Carrick, and consequently 
whose way lay by the very gate of Alloway 
kirk-yard, in order to cross the river Dooii 
at the old bridge, which is about two or 
three hundred yards further on than the said 
gate, had been detained by his business, tiU 
by tlie time he reached Ailoway it was tho 
wizard hour, between night and moruiuf'. 



TO MR. J. CLARKE. 



381 



Though he \va3 terrified with a blaze 
streaming from the kirk, yet, as it is a well- 
kiiowii fact, that to turn back on tliese 
occasions is running by far the greatest risk 
of mischief, he prudently advanced on his 
road. A\'hen he had reached the gate of 
the kirk-yard, he was surprised and eiiter- 
taiued. through the ribs and arches of an 
old Gothic window, which stiU faces the 
liighway, to see a dance of witches merrily 
footing it round their old sooty blackguard 
master, who was keeping them all alive with 
the power of his bagpipe. The farmer, 
stopping his horse to observe them a little, 
could plainly descry the faces of many old 
women of his acquaintance and neighbour- 
hood. How the gentleman was dressed, 
tradition does not say, but that the ladies 
were all in their smocks : and one, of them 
happening unluckily to have a smock which 
was considerably too short to answer all the 
purpose of that piece of dress, our farmer 
was so tickled, that he involuntarily burst 
out, with a loud laugh, " Weel luppen, 
Maggy wi' the short sark!" and recollecting, 
himself, instantly spurred his horse to the 
lop of his speed. I need not mention the 
universally known fact, that no diabolical 
power can pursue you beyond the middle of 
a running stream. Lucky it was for the 
poor fanner that the ri\er Doon was so 
near, for, notwithstand ng the speed of his 
horse, which was a good one, against he 
reached the middle of the arch of the 
bridge, and, consequently, the middle of the 
stream, the pursuing, vengeful hags, were 
so close at his heels, that one of thera 
actually sprang to seize him : but it was too 
late ; nothing was on her side of the stream 
but the liorse's tail, which immediately gave 
way at her infernal grip, as if blasted by a 
stroke of lightning ; but the farmer was 
beyond her reach. However, the unsightly, 
tail-less condition of the vigorous steed, 
was, to the last hour of the noble creature's 
hfe, an awful warning to the Carrick farmers 
not to stay too late in Ayr markets. 

The last relation I shall give, though 
equally true, is not so well identified as the 
two former, with regard to the scene ; but 
as the best authorities give it for Alloway, 
I shall relate it. 

On a summer's evening, about the time 
nature puts on her sables to mourn the 
ex))iry of the cheerful day, a shepherd boy, 
belonging to a farmer in the immediate 
neighbourhood of Alloway kirk, had just 
folded his charge, and was returning home. 
As he jiassed the kirk, in the adjoining 
fields he fell in with a crew of men and 



women, who were busy pulling stems of the 

plant Ragwort. He observed that as eaeii 

^ person pulled a Ragwort, he or she got 

I astride of it, and called out, " Up horsie I " 

I on which the Ragwort Hew oflT, like Pegasus, 

! through the air with its lider. The foolish 

■ boy likewise pulled his Ragwort, and cried 

I with the rest, " Up horsie ! " and, strange 

to tell, away he flew with the company. 

The first stage at which the cavalcade stopt, 

was a merchant's wine cellar, in Bourdeaiix, 

where, without saying, by your leave, they 

quaffed away at the best the cellar could 

atford, until the morning, foe to the imps 

and works of darkness, threatened to throw 

light on the matter, and frightened them 

from their carousals. 

The poor shepherd lad, being equally a 
stranger to the scene and the liquor, heed- 
lessly got himself drunk ; and when the 
rest took liorse, he fell asleep, and was 
found so next day by some of the peojile 
belonging to the merchant. Somebody that 
understood Scotch, asked him what he was, 
he said, such-a-one's herd in Alloway, and, 
by some means or other, getting home 
again, he lived long to tell the world the 
wondrous tale. R. B. (134) 



NO. CCXXXVl. 

TO MR. J. CLARKE, 

EDINBURGH. 

July -[Gth, 1792. 

Mr. Burns begs leave to present his 
most respectful compliments to .Mr. Clarke. 
i\Ir. B. some time ago did himself the 
honour of writing Mr. C. respecting coming 
out to the country, to give a little musical 
instruction in a highly respectable family, 
where Mr. C. may have his own terms, and 
may be as happy as indolence, the devil, and 
the gout, will permit him. Mr. B. knows 
well how Mr. C. is engaged with another 
family ; but, cannot Mr. C. find two or three 
weeks to spare to each of them ? Mr. B. h 
deeply impressed with, and awfully con- 
scious of, the high importance of Mr. C.'s 
time; whether in the winged moments of 
symphonious exhibition, at the keys ot 
harmony, while listening seraphs cease their 
own less delightful strains ; or, in the 
drowsy arms of slumb'rons repose, in tlie 
arms of his dearly beloved elbow chair, 
where the frowsy, but potent power of 



382 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



indolence, circumfiises her vapours round, 
and sheds her dews on the head of her 
darlini,' son. But half a line, conveying half 
a meaiunj from Mr. C, would make Mr. 
B. the happiest of mortals. K. B. 



NO. CCXXXVII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

Annan Waler-foot, August 22nd, 1792. 

Do not blame me for it, Sladam — my 
own conscience, hackneyed and weather- 
beaten as it is, in watching and reproving 
my vagaries, follies, indolence, &c., has cou- 
tiiuied to punish me sufficiently. 

Do you think it possible, my dear and 
honoured friend, that I could be so lost to 
gratit\ule for many favours, to esteem for 
much worth, and to the honest, kind, 
pleasurable tie of, now old acquaintance, — 
and I hope, and am sure, of progressive, 
increasing friendship — as for a single day, 
not to think of you — to ask the Fates 
what they are doing, and about to do, with 
my much-loved friend and her wide scattered 
connexion, and to beg of them to be as 
kind to you and yours as they possibly 
can ? 

A-propos! (though how it is a-propos, I 
have not leisure to explain), do you know 
that 1 am almost in love with an acquaint- 
ance of yours ? Almost 1 said I — I am in 
love, souce, over head and ears, deep as the 
most unfathomable abyss of the boundless 
ocean ! — but the word love, owing to the 
iutermim/ledoms of the good and the bad, the 
pure and the impure, in this world, being 
rather an equivocal term for expressing one's 
sentiments and sensations, I must do justice 
to the sacred purity of my attachment. 
Know, tlien, that the heart-struck awe ; the 
distant humble approach ; the delight we 
should have in gazing upon and listening to 
a messenger of Heaven, appearing in all the 
unspotted purity of his celestial home, 
among the coarse, polluted, far inferior sons 
of men, to deliver to them tidings that make 
their hearts swim in joy, and their imagina- 
tions soar in transport — such, so delighting 
and so pure, were the emotions of my soul, 
on meeting the other day with Miss Lesley 

Baillie, your neighbour, at M 's. Mr. B., 

with his two daughters, accompanied by Mr. 
II. of G., passing through Dumfries a few 
days ago, on their way to England, did me 
the honour of calling ou me; on which I 



took my horse (though, God knows, I could 
ill spare the time), and accompanied them 
fourteen or fifteen miles, and dined and 
spent the day with them. 'Twas about nine, 
I think, when I left them, and, riding home, 
I composed the following ballad, of which 
you will probably think you have a dear 
bargain, as it will cost you another groat of 
postage. You must know that there is au " 
old ballad beginning with : — 

My bonnie Lizzie Baillie, 

I'll rowe thee in my plaidie, &c. 



So I parodied it as follows, which is literally 
the first copy, "unanointed, unannealed," 
as Hamlet says : — 

Oh saw ye bonnie Lesley, &c. 

So much for ballads. I regret that you 
are gone to the east country, as I am to be 
in Ayrshire in about a fortnight. This 
world of ours, notwithstanding it has many 
good things in it, yet it has ever had this 
curse, that two or three people, who would 
be the happier the oftener they met together, 
are, almost without exception, always so 
placed as never to meet but once or twice 
a-year, which, considering the few years of a 
man's life, is a very great " evil under the 
sun," which I do not recollect that Solomon 
has mentioned in his catalogue of the miseries 
of man. I hope, and believe, that there is a 
state of existence beyond the grave, where 
the worthy of this life will renew their 
former intimacies, with this endearing 
addition, that "we meet to part no more !" 

Tell us, ye dead. 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret 
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be ? 

A thousand times have I made this apos- 
trophe to the departed sons of men, but not 
one of them has ever thought fit to answer 
the question. " Oh that some courteous 
ghost would blab it out!" But it cannot 
be; you and I, my friend, must make the 
experiment by ourselves, and for ourselves. 
However, I am so convinced that an un- 
shaken faith in the doctrines of religion is 
not only necessary, by making us better 
men, but also by making us happier men, 
that I should take every care that your little 
godson, and every little creature that shall 
call me father, shall be taught them. 

So ends this heterogeneous letter, written 
at this wild place of the world, in the 
intervals of my labour of discharging a vessel 
of rum from Antigua. R. B. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 



883 



NO. CCXXXVIH. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Dumfries, Sept. Wth, 1792. 

No I I will not attempt an apology. 
Amid all my hurry of business, grinding 
the faces of the publican and the sinner on 
the merciless wheels of the Excise ; making 
ballads, and then drinking, and singing 
them ; and, over and above all, the cor- 
recting the press-work of two different pub- 
lications ; still, stdl I might have stolen five 
minutes to dedicate to one of the first of my 
friends and fellow-creatures. I might have 
done, as I do at present, snatched an hour 
near "witching time of night," and scrawled 
a page or two. I might have congratulated 
my friend on his marriage ; or I might have 
thanked the Caledonian archers for the 
honour they have done me (though, to do 
myself justice, I intended to have done both 
in rhyme, else I had done both long ere 
now.) Well, then, here is to your good 
health ! — for you must know, I have set a 
nipperkin of toddy by me, just by way of 
spell, to keep away the meikle horned deil, 
or any of his subaltern imps, who may be 
on their nightly rounds. 

But what shall I write to you? "The 
voice said, Cry," and I said, "What shall I 
cry?" Oh, thou spirit! whatever thou art, 
or wherever thou makest thyself visible ! 
Be thou a bogle by the eerie side of an auld 
thorn, in the dreary glen through which the 
herd-callan maun bicker in his gloamin route 
frae tiie fauld ! Be thou a brownie, set, at 
dead of night, to thy task by the blazing 
ingle, or in the solitary barn, where the 
repercussions of thy iron flail half affright 
thyself, as thou performest the work of 
twenty of the sons of men, ere the cock- 
crowing summon thee to thy ample cog of 
substantial brose. Be thou a kelpie, haunt- 
ing the ford or ferry, in the starless night, 
mixing thy laughing yell with the howling 
of the storm and the roaring of the flood, as 
tnou viewest the perils and miseries of man 
on the foundering horse, or in the tumbling 
boat ! Or, lastly, be thou a ghost, paying 
thy nocturnal visits to the hoary ruins of 
decayed grandeur ; or performing thy mystic 
rites in tlie shadow of the time-worn church, 
while the moon looks, without a cloud, on 
the silent, ghastly dwellings of the dead 
around thee , or, taking thy stand by the 
bedside of the villain, or the murderer, por- 
traying on his dreaming fancy, pictures, 
dreadful as the horrors of unveiled hell, and 
terrible as the wrath of incensed Deity ! 



Come, thou spirit, but not in these horrid 
forms ; come with the milder, gentle, easy 
inspirations, which thou breathest round the 
wig of a prating advocate, or the tcte of a 
tea-sipping gossip, while their tongues run 
at the light-horse gallop of clishmaclaver for 
ever and ever — come, and assist a poor devd 
who is quite jaded in the attempt to share 
half an idea among half a hundred words ; 
to fill up four quarto pages, while he has not 
got one single sentence of recollection, in- 
formation, or remark, worth putting pen to 
paper for. 

• ••••• 

A-propos, how do you like — I mean really 
like — the married life ? Ah, my friend ! 
matrimony is quite a different thing from 
what your love-sick youths and sighing girls 
take it to be ! But marriage, we are told, is 
appointed by God, and I shall never quarrel 
with any of his institutions. I am a husband 
of older standing than you, and shall give 
you Jiiy ideas of the conjugal state (en 
passant ; you know I am no Latinist, is not 
conjufjal derived from juyiim , a yoke !) Well, 
then, the scale of good wifeship I divide into 
ten parts. Good-nature, four ; Good Sense, 
two ; Wit, one ; Personal Charms, viz. a 
sweet face, eloquent eyes, fine limbs, graceful 
carriage (I would add a fine waist too, but 
that is soon spoilt you know), all these, one ; 
as for the other qualities belonging to, or 
attending on, a wife, such as Fortune, Con- 
nections, Education (I mean education ex- 
traordinary). Family blood, &c., diviile the 
two remaining degrees among them as you 
please ; only, remember, that all these minor 
properties must be expressed by fractions, 
for there is not any one of them, in the 
aforesaid scale, entitled to the dignity of an 
inteyer. 

As for the rest of my fancies and reveries 
— how I lately met with Miss Lesley Baillie, 
the most beautiful, elegant woman in the 
world — how I accompanied her and her 
father's family fifteen miles on their journey, 
out of pure devotion, to admire the loveli- 
ness of the works of God, in such an 
imequalled display of them — how, in gallop- 
ing home at night, I made a ballad on her, o( 
which these two stanzas make a part — 

Thou, bonnie Lesley, art a queen. 

Thy subjects we before thee ; 
Thou, bonnie Lesley, art divine. 

The hearts o' men adore thee. 
The very deil he could na scathe 

Whatever wad belang thee ' 
He'd look into thy bonnie face 

And say, ' I canna wrang thee' — 



34 



384 



CORRESPONDENCE OP BURNS. 



Behold all these thinsjs are written in the 
chronicles of my imagination, and shall he 
read by thee, my dear friend, and by thy 
beloved spouse, my other dear friend, at a 
more convenient season. 

Now, to thee, and to thy before-designed 
Jo.soiH-companion, be given the precious 
things brought forth by the sun, and the 
precious things brought forth by the moon, 
and the benignest influences of the stars, 
and the living streams which flow from the 
fountains of life, and by the tree of life, for 
ever and ever ! Amen ! R. B. 



NO. CCXXXIX- 

MR. THOMSON (135) TO BURNS. 
Edinliuryh, Septemher 1792. 

Sir — For some years past I have, with a 
friend or two, employed many leisure hours 
in selecting and collating the most favourite 
of our national melodies for publication. 
We have engaged Pleyel, the most agreeable 
composer living, to put accompaniments to 
these, and also to compose an instrumental 
prelude and conclusion to each air, the 
better to fit them for concerts, both public 
and private. To render this work perfect, 
we are desirous to have the poetry improved, 
wherever it seems unworthy of the music ; 
and that it is so in many instances, is 
allowed by every one conversant with our 
musical collections. The editors of these 
seem, in general, to have depended on the 
music proving an excuse for the verses ; and 
hence, some charming melodies are united to 
mere nonsense and doggrel, while others are 
accommodated with rhymes so loose and 
indelicate, as cannot be sung in decent 
company. To remove this reproach would 
be an easy task to the author of the 
"Cotter's Saturday Night;" and, for the 
honour of Caledonia, I would fain hope he 
may be induced to take up the pen. If so, 
we shall be enabled to present the public 
with a collection, infinitely more interesting 
than any that has yet appeared, and accept- 
able to all persons of taste, whether they 
wish for correct melodies, delicate accom- 
paniments, or characteristic verses. We will 
esteem your poetical assistance a particular 
favour, besides, paying any reasonable price 
you shall please to demand for it. Profit is 
quite a secondary consideration with us, and 
we are resolved to spare neither pains nor 
expense on the publication. Tell me, frankly. 



then, whether you will devote your leisure to 
writing twenty or twenty-five songs, suited 
to the particular melodies which I am pre- 
pared to send you. A few songs, exception- 
able only in some of their verses, 1 will like- 
wise submit to your consideration ; leaving 
it to you, either to mend these, or make new 
songs in their stead. It is superfluous to 
assure you that I have no intention to dis- 
place any of the sterling old songs ; those 
only will be removed which appear quite 
silly or absolutely indecent. Even these 
shall be all examined by Mr. Burns, and if 
he is of opinion that any of them are 
deserving of the music, in such cases no 
divorce shall take place. G. Thomson. 



NO. CCXL. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON, 

Dumfries, Sept. I6th, 1792. 

Sir — I have just this moment got your 
letter. As the request you make to me will 
positively add to my enjoyments in comply- 
ing with it, I shall enter into your under- 
taking with all the small portion of altilities 
I have, strained to their utmost exertion by 
the impulse of enthusiasm. Only, don't 
hurry me: — "Deil tak the hindmost" is by 
no means the cri de guerre of my muse. 
Will you, as I am inferior to none of you in 
enthusiastic attaehment to the poetry and 
music of old Caledonia, and, since you 
request it, have cheerfully promised my mite 
of assistance — will you let me have a list of 
your airs with the first line of the printed 
verses you intend for them, that 1 may have 
an opportunity of suggesting any alteration 
that may occur to me? You know 'tis in 
the way of my trade ; still leaving you, 
gentlemen, the undoubted right of publishers 
to approve or reject, at your pleasure, for 
your own publication. A-propos, if you are 
for English verses, there is, on my part, an 
end of the matter. Whether in the sim- 
plicity of the ballad, or the pathos of the 
song, I can only hope to please myself in 
being allowed at least a sprinkling of our 
native tongue. English verses, particularly 
the works of Scotsmen, that have merit, are 
certainly very eligible. "Tweedside!" "Ah! 
the poor shepherd's mournful fate !" "Ah ! 
Chloris, could I now but sit," &c., you can- 
not mend ; but such insipid stuff as " To 
Fanny fair could I impart," &c., usually set 
to " the Mill, Mill, O ! " is a disgrace to the 
collections in which it has already appeared, 



ME. THOMSON TO BURNS. 



3S5 



and would doubly disgrace a collection that 
will have the very superior merit of yours. 
But more of this in the further prosecution 
of the business, if I am called on for my 
strictures and amendments — I say amend- 
ments, for I will not alter except where I 
myself, at least, think that I amend. 

As to any remuneration, you may think 
my songs either above or below price ; for 
they shall absolutely be the one or the other. 
In "the honest enthusiasm with which I 
embark in your undertaking', to talk of 
money, wages, fee, hire, &c., would be down- 
right prostitution (136) of soul ! A proof of 
each of the songs that I compose or amend, 
I shall receive as a fixvour. In the rustic 
phrase of the season, " Gude speed the 
wark ! " I am. Sir, your very humble 
servant, , R. BuiiNS. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, Sept. 2-ith, 1792. 

I HAVE this moment, my dear Madam, 
yours of the 23rd. All your other kind 
reproaches, your news, &c., are out of my 
head, when I read and think on Mrs. Henri's 
situation. Good God ! a heart-wounded 
helpless young woman — in a strange, foreign 
land, and that land convulsed with every 
horror that can harrow the human feelings 
— sick — looking, longing for a comforter, 
but finding none — a mother's feelings, too — 
but it is too much : he who wounded (he 
only can) may He heal ! 

I wish the farmer great joy of his new 
acquisition to his family. ****** I can- 
not say that I give him joy of his life as a 
farmer. 'Tis, as a farmer, paying a dear, 
unconscionable rent, a cursed life ! As to a 
laird farming his own property ; sowing his 
own corn in hope ; and reaping it, in spite 
of brittle weather, in gladness; knowing 
that none can say unto him, " What dost 
thou?" — fattening his herds; shearing his 
flocks ; rejoicing at Christmas ; and beget- 
ting sons and daughters, until he be the 
venerated, grey-haired leader of a little tribe 
— 'tis a heavenly life ! but devil take the life 
of reaping the fruits that another must eat. 

Well, your kind wishes will be gratified, 
u to seeing me when I make my Ayrshire 
■tisit. I cannot leave Mrs. B. until her nine 
months' race is run, which may, perhaps, be 
in three or four weeks. She, too, seems 
determined to make we the patriarchal 



leader of a band. However, if Heaven will 
be so obhgiiig as to let me have them in the 
proportion of three boys to one girl I shall 
be so much the more pleased. I hope, if I 
am spared with them, to show a set of boys 
that will do honour to my cares and name ; 
but I am not equal to the task of rearing 
girls. Besides, I am too poor — a girl should 
always have a fortune. A-propos, your little 
godson is thriving charmingly, but is a very 
devil. lie, though two years younger, baa 
completely mastered his brother. Robert is 
indeed the mildest, gentlest, creature I eve» 
saw. He has a most surprising memory, 
and is quite the pride of his schoolmaster. 

Yon know how readily we get into prattle 
upon a subject dear to our heart — you can 
excuse it. God bless you and yours ! 

R. B. 



NO. CCXLII. 

TO THE SAME. 

I HAD been from home, and did not 
receive your letter until my return the other 
day. What shall I say to comfort you, my 
much-valued, much-afflicted friend ! I can 
but grieve with you ; consolation I have 
none to offer, except that which religion 
holds out to the children of affliction— 
{children of affliction! — how just the ex- 
pression !) — and like every other family, 
they have matters among them which they 
hear, see, and feel in a serious, all-important 
manner, of which the world has not, nor 
cares to have, any idea. The world looks 
indifferently on, makes the passing remark, 
and proceeds to the next novel occurrence. 

Alas, INIadam ! who would wish for many 
years ? What is it but to drag existence 
until our joys gradually expire, and leave us 
in a night of misery — like the gloom which 
blots out the stars, one by one, from the face 
of night, and leaves us, without a ray of 
comfort, in the howling waste ! 

I am interrupted, and must leave off. 
You shall aoou hear from me again. 

R. B. 



NO. CCXLII I. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Oct. I3th, 1792. 

Dear Sir — I received with much satis- 
faction your pleasant and obhging letter an(^ 



886 



CORRESPONDEJICE OF BURNS. 



I return my warmest acknowledgments for 
the enthusiasm with which you have entered 
into our undertaking. We have now no 
doubt of being able to produce a collection 
highly deserving of public attention in all 
respects. 

I agree with you in thinking English 
verses, that have merit, very eligible, wliere- 
ever new verses are necessary, because the 
English becomes every year, more and more, 
the language of Scotland ; but, if you mean 
that no English verses, except those by 
Scottish authors, ought to be admitted, I am 
half inclined to differ from you. I should 
consider it unpardonable to sacrifice one 
good song in the Scottish dialect, to make 
room for English verses ; but if we can 
select a few excellent ones suited to the un- 
provided or ill-provided airs, would it not be 
the very bigotry of literary patriotism to 
reject stich, merely because the autliors 
were born south of the Tweed ? Our sweet 
air, " My Nannie, O ! " which in the collec- 
tions is joined to the poorest st\iff that 
Allan Ramsay ever wrote, beginning — 
" While some for pleasure pawn their health," 
answers so finely to Dr. Percy's beautiful 
song, "Oh Nancy, wilt thou go with me?" 
that one would think he wrote it on purpose 
for the air. However, it is not at all our 
wish to confine you to English verses ; you 
shall freely be allowed a sprinkling of your 
native tongue, as you elegantly express it ; 
and, moreover, we will patiently wait your 
own time. One thing only I beg, which is, 
that however gay and sportive the muse may 
be, she may always be decent. Let her not 
write what beauty would blush to speak, nor 
wound that charming delicacy which forms 
the most precious dowry of our daughters. 
I do not conceive the song to be the most 
proper vehicle for witty and brilliant con- 
ceits ; simplicity, I believe, should be its 
prominent feature : but, in some of our 
songs, the writers have confounded simplicity 
with coarseness and vulgarity ; although, 
between the one and the other, as Dr. Beattie 
well observes, there is as great a difference 
.as between a plain suit of clothes and a 
bundle of rags. The humorous ballad, or 
pathetic complaint, is best suited to our art- 
less melodies ; and more interesting, indeed, 
in all songs, than the most pointed wit, 
■dazzling descriptions, and flowery fancies. 

^Vith these trite observations, I send you 
eleven of the songs, for which it is my wish 
to substitute others of your writing. I shall 
soon transmit the rest, and, at the same 
tmie, a prospectus of the whole collection ; 
aud, you may believe, we will receive any 



hints that you are so kind as to give for im- 
proving the work, with the greatest pleasure 
and thankfulness. I remain, dear Sir, && 



NO. CCXLIV. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON, 

My Dear Sir — Let rae tell you, that 
you are too fastidious in your ideas of 
songs and ballads, I own that your criti- 
cisms are just ; the songs you specify in 
your list have, all but one, the faults you 
remark in them ; but who shall mend the 
matter? AVho shall rise up and say, "Go 
to ! I will make a better ? " For instance, 
on reading over "The Lea-rig," I imme- 
diately set about trying my hand on it, and, 
after all, I could make nothing more of it 
than the following, which Heaven knows, is 
poor enough. 

[^Here follow the two first stanzas of "My 
ain kind dearie ! "] 

Your observation as to the aptitude of 
Dr. Percy's ballad to the air, " Nannie, O 1 " 
is just. It is besides, perhaps, the most 
beautiful ballad in the English language. 
But let me remark to you, that in the senti- 
ment and style of our Scottish airs, there is 
a pastoral simplicity, a something that one 
may call the Doric style and dialect of vocal 
music, to which a dash of our native tongue 
and manners is particularly, nay, peculiarly 
apposite. For this reason, and, upon my 
honour, for this reason alone, 1 am of 
opinion (but, as I told you before, my 
opinion is yours, freely yours, to approve or 
reject, as you please) that my Isallad of 
" Nannie, O ! " might perhaps do fur one set 
of verses to the tune. Now don't let it 
enter into your head, that you are under any 
necessity of taking my verses. 1 have long 
ago made up my mind as to my own repu- 
tation in the business of authorship, and 
have nothing to be pleased or offended at, in 
your adoption or rejection of my verses. 
Though you should reject one half of what 
I give you, I shall be pleased with your 
adopting the other half, and shall continue 
to serve you with the same assiduity. 

In the printed copy of my " Nannie, O ! " 
the name of the river is horridly prosaic. I 
will alter it : 

" Behind yon hills where Lugar flows." 

Girvan is the name of the river that suits 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



887 



the idea of the stanza best, but Lugar is 
the most agreeable modulation of syllables. 

I will soon give you a great many more 
remarks on this business ; but I have just 
now an opportunity of conveying you this 
acrawl, free of postage, au expense that it is 
ill able to pay ; so, with my best complimeuts 
to honest Allan, Gude be wi' ye, &c. 
Friday Night, 

Saturday Morning. 

As I find I have still an hour to spare this 
morning before my conveyance goes away, I 
will give you " Nannie, O ! " at length. 

Your remarks on " Ewe-bughts, Marion," 
are just ; still it has obtained a place among 
our more classical Scottish songs ; and what 
with many beauties in its composition, and 
more prejudices in its favour, you will not 
find it easy to supplant it. 

In my very early years, when I was think- 
ing of going to the West Indies, I took the 
following farewell of a dear girl. It is quite 
trifling, and has nothing of the merits of 
" Ewe-bughts ; " but it will fill up this page. 
You must know that all my earlier love- 
songs were the breathings of ardent passion, 
and though it might have been easy in after- 
times to have given them a polish, yet that 
polish, to me, whose they were, and who 
perhaps alone cared for them, would have 
defaced the legend of my heart, which was 
so faithfully inscribed on them. Their un- 
couth simplicity was, as they say of ^anes, 
their race. 

[//ere follows the song " Will ye go to the 
Indies, mij Mary ? " Mr. Thomson did not 
adopt the song in his collection^ 

" Gala Water," and " Auld Rob Morris," 
I think, will most probably be the next 
subject of my musings. However, even on 
my verses, speak out your criticisms with 
equal frankness. My wish is, not to stand 
aloof, the uncomplying bigot of opiuidtretc, 
but cordially to join issue with you in the 
fuithcrauce of the work. 



NO. CCXLV. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Novemler 8th, 1792. 

If you mean, my dear Sir, that all the 
BODgs in your collection shall be poetry of 
the first merit, I am afraid you will find 
more difficulty in the tmdertaking than you 
are aware of There is a peculiar rhythmus 



in many of our airs, and a necessity of 
adapting syllables to the emphasis, or what 
1 would call the feature-notes of the tune, 
that cramp the poet, and lay him under 
almost insuperable difficulties. For instance, 
in the air, " My wife's a wanton wee thing," 
if a few lines smooth and pretty can be 
adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The 
following were made extempore to it ; and 
though, on further study, I might give you 
something more profound, yet it might not 
suit the light-horse gallop of the air so well 
as tliis random chnk : — 

[Here follows "My Wife's a winsome wee 

thing."] 

I have just been looking over the "Collier's 
bonnie dochter ;" and if the following rhap- 
sody, which I composed the other day, on a 
charming Ayrshire girl. Miss Lesley Baillie, 
as she passed through this place to England, 
will suit your taste better than the " Collier 
Lassie," fall on and welcome : — 

\Here follows "Bonnie Lesley."] 

I have hitherto deferred the sublimer* 
more pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they 
will take, and deserve, a greater effort. How- 
ever, they are all put into your hands, as 
clay into the hands of the potter, to make 
one vessel to honour, and another to dis- 
honour. Farewell, &c. 



NO. CCXLVI. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

November Uth, 1792. 

My Dear Sir — I agree with you that 
the song, "Katharine Ogie," is very poor 
stuff, and unworthy, altogether unworthy, of 
so beautiful an air. I tned to mend it; but 
the awkward sound, Ogie, recurring so often 
in the rhyme, spoils every attempt at intro- 
ducing sentiment into the piece. The fore- 
going song pleases myself; I think it is in 
my happiest manner : you will see at first 
glance that it suits the air. The subject of 
the song is one of the most interesting pas- 
sages of my youthful days, and I own that 
I should be much flattered to see the verses 
set to au air which would ensure celebrity. 
Perhaps, after all, 'tis the still glowing pre- 
judice of my heart that throws a borrowed 
lustre over the merits of the composition. 

I have partly taken your idea of "Auld 
Rob Morris." I have adopted the two first 



34* 



388 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



verses, and am going on with the song on a 
new plan, which promises pretty well. I 
take tjp one or another, just as the bee of 
the moment buzzes in my bonnet-lug ; and 
do you, sans ceremonie, make what use you 
choose of the productions. Adieu, &c. 

R. B. 

[//«re follows a copy of the " Highland 
Mary."'\ 



NO. CCXLVII. 



MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinhurijh, Nov. 1792. 

Dear Sir — I was just going to write to 
you, that on meeting with your Nannie, I 
had fallen violently in love with her. I thank 
you, therefore, for sending the charming 
rustic to me, in the dress you wish her to 
appear before the public. She does you 
great credit, and will soon be admitted into 
the best company. 

I regret that your song for the " Lea-rig " 
is so short ; the air is easj'^, soon sung, and 
very pleasing : so that, if the singer stops at 
the end of two stanzas, it is a pleasure lost 
ere it is well possessed. 

Although a dash of our native tongue and 
manners is, doubtless, peculiarly congenial 
and appropriate to our melodies, yet 1 shall 
be able to present a considerable number of 
the very Flowers of English song, well 
adapted to those melodies, which, in England, 
at least, will be the means of recommending 
them to still greater attention than they 
have procured there. But, you will observe, 
my plan is, that every air shall, in the first 
place, have verses wholly by Scottish poets ; 
and that those of English writers shall follow 
as additional songs for the choice of the 
singer. 

What you say of the "Ewe-bughts" ia 
just ; I admire it, and never meant to sup- 
plant it. All I requested was, that you 
would try your hand on some of the inferior 
stanzas, which are apparently no part of the 
original song; but this I do not urge, because 
the song is of sufficient length, though those 
inferior stanzas be omitted, as they will be 
by the singer of taste. You must not think 
1 expect all the songs to be of superlative 
merit ; that were an unreasonable expecta- 
tion. I am sensible that no poet can sit 
down doggedly to pen verses, and succeed 
well at all times. 



I am highly pleased with your humorous 
and amorous rhapsody on "Bonnie Lesley :" 
it is a thousand times better than the 
" Collier's Lassie." " The Deil he cou'd na 
scaith thee," &c., is an eccentric and happy 
thought. Do you not think, however, that 
the names of such old heroes as Alexander 
sound rather queer, unless in pompous or 
mere burlesque verse? Instead of the line, 
"And never made anither," I would humbly 
suggest, "And ne'er made sic anither;" and 
I would fain have you substitute some other 
line for " Return to Caledonie," in the last 
verse, because I think this alteration of the 
orthography, and of the sound of Caledonia, 
disfigures the word, and renders it Hudi- 
brastic. 

Of the other song, " My wife's a winsome 
wee thing," I think the first eight lines very 
good ; but I do not admire the other eight, 
because four of them are a bare repetition of 
the first verses. I have been trying to spin 
a stanza, but could make nothing better than 
the following: do you mend it, or, as Yorick 
did with the love letter, whip it up in your 
own way : — 

Oh leeze me on my wee thing. 
My bonnie blythesome, wee thing; 
Sae lang's I hae my wee thing, 
I'll think my lot divine. 

Tho' warld's care we share o't. 
And may see meikle mair o't, 
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it. 
And ne'er a word repine. 

You perceive, my dear Sir, I avail myself 
of the liberty, which you condescend to allow 
me, by speaking freely what I think. Be 
assured, it is not my disposition to pick out 
the faults of any poem or picture I see : my 
first and chief object is to discover and be 
delighted with the beauties of the piece. If 
I sit down to examine critically, and at leisure, 
what, perhaps, you have written in haste, I 
may happen to observe careless lines, the 
reperusal of which might lead you to improve 
them. The wren will often see what has 
been overlooked by the eagle. I remain 
yours faithfully, &c. 

P. S. Your verses upon " Highland Mary" 
are just come to hand : they breathe the 
genuine spirit of poetry, and, like the music, 
will last for ever. Such verses, united to 
such an air, with the delicate harmony of 
rieyel superadded, might form a treat worthy 
of being presented to Apollo himself. I have 
heard the sad story of your Mary; you 
always seem inspired when you write of 
her. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



88H 



NO. CCXLVIIl 

BURNS TO JIR. THOilSON. 

Dumfnes, Dec. \st, 1792. 

Your alterations of my " Nannie, O !" 
are perfectly right. So are those of " My 
Wife's .1 winsome wee thing." Your alter- 
ation of the second stanza is a positive 
impro\ement. Now, my dear Sir, with the 
freedom which characterises our correspond- 
ence, I must not, cannot alter " Bonnie 
Lesley." You are right ; the word " Alex- 
ander" makes the line a little uncouth, but I 
think the thought is pretty. Of Alexander, 
beyond all other heroes, it may be said, in 
the sublime language of Scripture, that " he 
went forth conquering and to conquer." 
For nat\ire made her what she is. 
And never made aiiither. ^Such a person as 
she is ) 

This is, in my opinion, more poetical than 
"Ne'er made sic anither." However, it is 
immaterial : make it either way. "Caledonie," 
I agree with you, is not so good a word as 
could be wished, though it is sanctioned in 
three or four instances by Allan Ramsay; 
but I cannot help it. In short, that species 
of stanza is the most difficult that 1 have 
ever tried. 

The " Lea-rig" is as follows : — • 

[Here the poet repeats the first two stanzas, 
adding a third.] 

I am interrupted. Yours, &C. 



NO. CCXLIX. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

December ilh, 1792. 

The fore;;oing ["Auld Rob Morris "and 
** Duncan Gray,"] I submit, my dear Sir, to 
your better judgment. Acquit them, or con- 
demn them, as seemeth good in your sight. 
" Duncan Gray " is that kind of ligl>t-horse 
gallop of an air, which precludes sentiment. 
The ludicrous is its ruling feature. 



NO. ecu 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, Dec. Qth, 1792. 
I SHALL be in Ayrshire, I think, nexc 
week ; and, if at all possible, I sliall certainly. 



my much-esteemed friend, have the pleasurt 
of visiting at Dunlop-house. 

Alas, Madam ! how seldom do we meet in 
this world, that we have reason to congratu- 
late ourselves on accessions of happiness ! I 
have not passed half the ordinary term of 
an old man's life, and yet I scarcely look 
over the obituary of a newspaper, that I do 
not see some names that I have known, and 
which I, and other acquaintances, little 
thought to meet with there so soon. Every 
other instance of the mortality of our kind, 
makes us cast an anxious look into the 
dreadful abyss of uncertainty, and shudder 
with apprehension for ovir own fate. But of 
how different an importance are the lives of 
different individuals ! Nay, of what im- 
portance is one period of the same life more 
than another? A few years ago I could 
have lain down in the dust, "careless of the 
voice of the morning ; " and now not a few, 
and these most helpless individuals, would, 
on losing me and my exertions, lose both 
their " staff and shield." By the way, these 
helpless ones liave lately got an addition; 
Mrs. B. having given me a fine girl since I 
wrote you. There is a charming passage in 
Thomson's " Edward and Eleanora : " — 
"The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer? 
Or what need he regard iiis siiujle woes ? " &c. 

As I am got in the way of quotations, I 
shall give you another from the same piece, 
peculiarly — alas! too peculiarly — apposite, 
my dear ]\Iadam, to your present frame of 
mind : — 

" Who so unworthy but may proudly deck 

him 
With his fair-weather virtue, that exults 
Glad o'er the summer main ? The tempest 

comes, [the helm 

The rough winds rage aloud; when from 
This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies 
Lamenting. Heavens! if privileged from 

trial. 
How cheap a thing were virtue ! " 

I do not remember to have heard you 
mention Thomson's dramas. I pick up 
favourite quotations, and store them in my 
mind as ready armour, offensive or defensive, 
amid the struggle of this turbulent exist- 
ence. Of these is one, a very favourite oae, 
from his " Alfred :"^ 

" .\ttach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 

And offices of life ; to life itself. 

With all its vain and transient joys, sit louse 

Probably I have quoted some of these to 
you formerly, as indeed, when I write from 



280 



CORKESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



ihe heart, I am apt to be guilty of such re- 
petitions. The compass of the heart, in the 
musical style of expression, is much more 
bounded than that of the imagination, so 
the notes of the former are extremely apt 
to run into one another ; but in return for 
the paucity of its compass, its few notes are 
much more sweet. I must still give you 
another quotation, which I am almost sure 
I have given you before, but I cannot resist 
the temptation. The subject is religion — 
speaking of its importance to mankind, the 
author says : — 

*Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning 
bright. 

I see you are in for double postage, so I 
shall e'en scribble out t'other sheet. We in 
this country here, have many alarms of the 
reforming, or rather the republican spirit, of 
your part of the kingdom. Indeed, we are a 
good deal in commotion ourselves. For me, 
I am a placeman, you know ; a very humble 
one, indeed. Heaven knows, but still so 
much as to gag me. AVhat my private sen- 
timents are, you will find out without an 
interpreter. 

I have taken up the subject, and the other 
day, for a pretty actress's benefit night, I 
wrote an address, which I will give on tlie 
other page, called " The Rights of Woman." 

I shall have the honour of receiving your 
criticisms in person at Dunlop. R. B. 



TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ.. FINTRY. 

December, 1792. 

Sir — I have been surprised, confounded, 
and distracted, by Mr. Mitchell, the col- 
lector, telling me that he has received an 
order from your Board (137) to inquire into 
my political conduct, and blaming me as a 
person disaffected to government. 

Sir, yen are a husband, and a father. You 
kmw what you would feel, to see the much- 
loved wife of your bosom, and your helpless, 
prattling little ones, turned adrift into the 
world, degraded and disgraced from a situa- 
tion in which they had been respectable and 
respected, and left almost without the neces- 
sary support of a miserable existence. Alas, 
Sir ! must I think that such soon will be my 

lot ! and from the d , dark insinuations 

of hellish groundless envy too ! I believe. 
Sir, 1 may aver it, and in the sight of Omni- 
science, that I would not tell a deliberate 



falsehood, no, not though even worse hor 
rors, if worse can be, than those I have 
mentioned, hung over my head ; and I say, 
that the allegation, whatever villain has 
made it, is a lie 1 To the British Constitu- 
tion, on revolution principles, next after my 
God, I am most devoutly attached. You, 
Sir, have been much and generously my 
friend ; Heaven knows how warmly I have 
felt the obligation, and how gratefully I 
have thanked you. Fortune, Sir, has made 
you powerful, and me impotent — has given 
you patronage, and me dependence. I would 
not, for my single self, call on your hu- 
manity ; were such my insular, unconnected 
situation, I would despise the tear that now 
swells in ray eye — I could brave misfortune, 
I could face ruin, for, at the worst, " Death's 
thousand doors stand open ; " but, good 
God ! the tender concerns that I have men- 
tioned, the claims and ties that I see at this 
moment, and feel around me, how they un- 
nerve courage and wither resolution ! To 
your patronage, as a man of some genius, 
you have allowed me a claim; and your 
esteem, as an honest man, I know is my due. 
To these. Sir, permit me to appeal ; by these 
may I adjure you to save me from that 
misery which threatens to overwhelm me, 
and which, with my latest breath I will say 
it, I have not deserved. R. B. 



NO. ccm. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, December 3lst, 1792. 

Dear Mad.\m — A hurry of business, 
thrown in heaps by my absence, has until 
now, prevented my returning my grateful 
acknowledgments to the good family of 
Dunlop, and you, in particular, for that hos- 
pitable kindness which rendered the four 
days I spent under that genial roof, four of 
the pleasantest I ever enjoyed. Alas, my 
dearest friend ! how few and fleeting are 
those things we call pleasures ! — on my road 
to Ayrshire, I spent a night with a friend 
wliom I much valued, a man whose days 
promised to be many ; and on Saturday last 
we laid him in the dust I 

January 2nd, 1792. 

I HAVE just received yours of the 30th, 
and feel much for your situation. However, 
1 heartily rejoice in your prospect of reco- 
very from that vile jaundice. As to myself, 
I am better, though not quite free of my 



TO MTl. TnO'\rSON. 



n9i 



coraplatnt. You must not think, as you 
seem to insinuate, that in ray way of life I 
want exercise. Of that I have enoutfh ; but 
occasional hard drinking is the devil to rae. 
Against this I have again and a^ain bent ray 
resolution, and have greatly succeeded. 
Taverns I have totally abandoned : it is the 
private parties, in the family way, among the 
hard-drinking gentlemen of this country, 
that do me the mischief — but even this, I 
have more than half given over. (138) 

JNIr. Corbet can be of little service to me 
at present ; at least I should be shy of ap- 
plying. I cannot possibly be settled as a 
supervisor for several years. I must wait 
the rotation of the list, and there are twenty 
names before mine. I might, indeed, get a 
job of officiating, where a settled superv isor 
was ill, or aged; but that hauls me from my 
family, as I could not remove them on sucli 
an uncertainty. Besides, some envious, ma- 
licious devil, has raised a little demur on my 
political principles, and I wish to let that 
matter settle before I otfer myself too much 
in the eye of my supervisors. I have set, 
henceforth, a seal on ray lips, as to these 
unlucky politics; but to you, I must breathe 
my sentiments. In this, as in everything 
else, I shall show the undisguised emotions 
of ray soul. War I deprecate : misery and 
ruin to thousands are in the blast that 
announces the destructive demon. * * 
K. B. 



NO. CCLHI. 

TO THE SAME (139) 

January 5th, 1793. 

Yov see my hurried life. Madam; I can 
only conmiand starts of time : however, I 
aui glad of one thing ; since I finished the 
other sheet, the political blast that threat- 
ened my welfare is overblown. I have cor- 
responded with Commissioner Graham, for 
the board had made me the subject of their 
animadversions ; and now I have the plea- 
sure of informing you, that all is set to 
rights in that (|narter. Now, as to these 

informers, may the devil be let loose to 

But, hold ! 1 was praying most fervently in 
my last sheet, and I must not so soon fall 
a-swearing in this. 

Alas ! how little do the wantonly or idly 
officious think what mischief they do by 
their malicious insinuations, indirect imper- 
tinence, or thoughtless blabbin^s. What a 



diit'erence there is in intrinsic worth, can- 
dour, benevolence, generosity, kindness — in 
all the charities and all the virtues — between 
one class of himian beings and another. For 
instance, the amiable circle I so lately mixed 
with in the hospitable hall of Dunlop, their 
generous hearts, their uncontaminated dig- 
nified rainds, their informed and polished 
understandings — what a contrast, when 
compared — if such comparing were not 
downright sacrilege — with the soul of the 
miscreant who can deliberately jtlot the 
destruction of an honest man that never 
ofi'ended him, and with a grin of satisfaction 
see the unfortunate being, his faithful wife, 
and prattling innocents, turned over to 
beggary and ruin ! 

Your cup, my dear Madam, arrived safe. 
I had two worthy fellows dining with me the 
other day, when I, with great formality, pro- 
duced my whigmaleerie cup, and told them 
that it had been a family-piece among the 
descendants of William Wallace. This 
roused such an enthusiasm, that they in- 
sisted on bumpering the punch round in it ; 
and by and bye, never did your great 
ancestor lay a suthron more completely to 
rest, than for a time did your cup my two 
friends. A-propos, this is the season of 
wishing. May God bless you, my dear 
friend, and bless rae, the humblest and 
sincerest of your friends, by granting you 
yet many returns of the season ! May all 
good things attend you and yours, wherever 
they are scattered over the earth ! K. B. 



NO. CCLIV. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. (140) 
January, 1793. 

M.\NY returns of the season to you, my 
dear Sir. How comes on your publication? 
— will these two foregoing be of any service 
to you ? I should like to know what songs 
you print to each tune. besi<le3 the verses to 
which it is set. In short, I would wish to 
give you my opinion on all the poetry you 
publish. You know it is my trade, and a 
man in the way of his trade may suggest 
useful hints that escape men of much supe- 
rior parts and endowments in other things. 

If you meet with my dear and much- 
valued Cuiiniughara, greet him, in my name, 
with the corapluuents of the season. Yours, 
&c. 



392 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BUR:SS. 



NO. CCLV. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
Edinlmrrjh, January 20th, 1793. 

You make me happy, my dear Sir, and 
thousands will be happy, to see the charming 
songs you have sent me. Many merry 
returns of the season to you, and may you 
long continue among the sons and daughters 
of Caledonia, to delight them and to honour 
yourself. 

The four last songs with which you 
favoured me, "Auld Rob Morris," "Dun- 
can Gray," "Gala Water," and "Cauld 
Kail," are admirable. Duncan is indeed a 
lad of grace, and his humour will endear 
him to every body. 

The distracted lover in "Auld Rob," and 
the happy shepherdess in " Gala Water," 
exhibit an excellent contrast : they speak 
from genuine feeling, and powerfully touch 
the Weart. 

The number of songs which I had origi- 
nally in view was limited, but I now resohe 
to include every Scotch air and song worth 
singiug ; leaving none behind but mere 
gleanings, to which the publishers of omnium- 
gatherum are welcome. I would rather be 
the editor of a collection from which nothing 
could be taken away, than of one to which 
nothing could be added. We intend pre- 
senting the subscribers with two beautiful 
stroke engravings, the one characteristic of 
the plaintive, and the other of the lively 
songs ; and I have Dr. Beattie's promise of 
an essay upon the subject of our national 
music, if his health will permit him to write 
it. As a number of our songs have doubt- 
less been called forth by particular events, 
or by the charms of peerless damsels, there 
must be many curious anecdotes relating to 
them. 

The late Mr. Tytler of Woodhouselee, I 
believe, knew more of this than any body; 
for he joined to the pursuits of an antiquary 
a taste for poetry, besides being a man of 
the world, and possessing an entlinsiasm for 
music beyond most of his contemporaries. 
He was quite pleased with this plan of mine, 
for I may say it has been solely managed by 
me, and we had several long conversations 
about it when it was in embryo. If I could 
simply mention the name of the heroine of 
each song, and the incident which occasioned 
the verses, it would be gratifying. Pray, 
will you send me any information of this 
sort, as well with regard to your own songs 
as the old ones ? 

To all the favourite songs of the plaintive 



or pastoral kind, will be joined the delicate 
accompaniments, &c., of Pleyel. To those 
of the comic and humorous class, I think 
accompaniments scarcely necessary ; they 
are chiefly fitted for the conviviality of the 
festive board, and a tuneful voice, with a 
proper delivery of the words, renders them 
perfect. Nevertheless, to these 1 propose 
adding bass accompaniments, because then 
they are fitted either for singing, or for 
instrumental performance, when there hap- 
pens to be no singer. I mean to employ 
our right trusty friend Mr. Clarke, to set the 
bass to these, which he assures me he will 
do con amove, and with much greater atten- 
tion than he ever bestowed on any thing of 
the kind. But for this last class of airs I 
will not attempt to find more than one set 
of verses. 

That eccentric bard, Peter Pindar, has 
started I know not how many ditficulties 
about writing for the airs I sent to him, 
because of the peculiarity of their measure, 
and the trammels they oppose ou his flying 
Pegasus. I subjoin, for your perusal, the 
only one I have yet got from him, being for 
the fine air, "Lord Gregory." The Scots 
verses printed with that air are taken from 
the middle of an old ballad, called "Tiie 
Lass of Lochroyan," which I do not admire. 
I have set down the air, therefore, as a 
creditor of yours. Mauy of the Jacobite 
songs are replete with wit and humour — 
might not the best of these be included in 
our volume of comic songs ? 

POSTSCRIPT. 

FROM THE HON. ANDREW ERSKINE. (141) 

Mr. Thomson has been so obliging as to 
give me a perusal of your songs. " High- 
land Mary" is most enchantingly pathetic, 
and " Duncan Gray" possesses native genuine 
humour — " Spak o' lowpin' o'er a linn," is a 
line of itself that should make you immortal. 
I sometimes hear of you from our mutual 
friend Cunningham, who is a most excellent 
fellow, and possesses, above all men I know, 
the charm of a most obliging disposition. 
You kindly promised me, abou*. a year ago, 
a collection of your unpublished productions, 
religious and amorous. I know, from expe- 
rience, how irksome it is to copy. If you 
will get any trusty person in Dumfries to 
write them over fair, I will give Peter Hill 
whatever money he asks for his trouble, and 
I certainly shall not betray your confidence. 
I am your hearty admirer, 

Andrew Ekskinb. 



TO CLARINCA. 



393 



NO. eCLVI. 

BURNS TO MR. THOxAISON. 

January 26t!t, 1793. 

I APPROVE greatly, my dear Sir, of your 
plans. Dr. Beattie's essay will, of itself, be 
a treasure. On my part I mean to draw up 
ail appendix to the Doctor's essay, cou- 
taiuiiisj my stock of anecdotes, &c., of our 
Scots songs. All the late Mr. Tytler's 
anecdotes 1 have by me, taken down in the 
course of my acquaintance with hira, from 
his own mouth. I am such an enthusiast, 
tliat in the course of my several peregrina- 
tions through Scotland, I made a pilgrimage 
to the individual spot from which every soiv 
took its rise, "Lochaber," and the "Braes o'f 
Ballenden," excepted. So far as the locality, 
either from the title of ihe air, or the tenor 
of the song, could Ll- ascertained, I have 
paid my devotions at the particular shrine 
of every Scots muse. 

I do not doubt but you might make a 
very valuable collection of Jacobite songs; 
but would it give no offence ? In the mean- 
time, do not you think that some of tliera, 
•jarticularly "The sow's tail to Geordie," as 
an air, with other words, might be well worth 
a place in your collection of lively songs ? 

If it were possible to procure songs of 
merit, it would be proper to have one set of 
Scots words to every air, and that the set of 
words to which the notes ought to be set. 
There is a ndwele, a pastoral simplicity, in a 
slight iutermi.vLture of Scots words and 
phraseology, which is more in unison (at 
least to my taste, and, I will add, to every 
genuine Caledonian taste) with the simple 
pathos, or rustic sprightliness of our native 
music, than any English verses whatever. 

The very name of Peter Pindar is an 
acquisition to your work. (142) His " Gre- 
gory" is beautiful. I have tried to give you 
a set of stanzas in Scotch, on the same 
subject, which are at your service. Not 
that I intend to enter the lists with Peter- 
that would be presumption indeed. Jly 
song, though much inferior in poetic merit, 
has, I think, more of the ballad simplicity 
m it. (143) 

[//ere follows "Lord Gregory."} 



NO. CCLVII. 

TO CLARINDA. (144) 

1703 
Before you ask me whv I have not 
written you, first let me be inforwed of you 



how I shall write you? "In friendship," 
you say ; and I have many a time taken up 
my pen to try an epistle of friendship to 
you ; but it will not do : ' tis like Jove 
grasping a pop-gun, after having wielded 
his thunder. When I take up the pen, 
recollection ruins me. Ah ! my ever 
dearest Clarinda! Clarinda !— what a host 
of memory's tenderest offspring, crowd on 
my fancy at that sound ! But I must not 
indulge that subject— you have forbid it. 

I am extremely happy to learn that your 
precious health is re-established, and that 
you are once more fit to enjoy that satisfac- 
tion in existence, wliich health alone can 
give us. My old friend has indeed been 
kind to you. Tell hira, that I envy him the 
power of serving you. I had a letter from 
him a while ago, but it was so dry, so 
distant, so like a card to one of his clients, 
that I could scarcely bear to read it, and 
have not yet answered it. He is a good 
honest fellow; and can write a friendly 
letter, which would do equal honour to his 
head, and his heart ; as a whole sheaf of 
his letters I have by me will witness : and 
though Fame docs not blow her trumpet at 
my approach now, as she did then, when ha 
first honoured me with his frieudsliip, yet I 
am as proud as ever ; and when I am' laid 
in my grave, 1 wish to be stretched at my 
full length, that I may occupy every inch of 
ground which I have a right to. 

You would laugh were you to see me 
where I am just now !— would to heaven 
youwtr; here to laugh with me! though 
I am afraid that crying would be our first 
employment. Here am I set, a solitary 
hermit, in the solitary room of a solitary 
inn, with a solitary bottle of wine by me— 
as grave and as stupid as an owl, but, like 
that owl, still faithful to my old song. In 
confirmation of which, my dear Mrs. Mack, 
here is your good health ! may the hand- 
waled benisoiiB o' Heaven bless your bonnie 
face ; and tho wretch wha skcllies at your 
welfare, may the auld tinkler deil get him to 
clout his rotten heart ! Amen. 

You must know, my dearest JIadara, that 
these now many years, wherever I am, in 
whatever company, when a married lady is 
called on as a toast. I constantly give you ; 
but as your name has never passed my'lips, 
even to my most intimate friend, I give you 
by the name of Mrs. Mack. This is so well 
known among my acquaintances, that when 
my married lady is called for, the toast- 
master will say— "O, we need not ask him 
who it is— here's Mrs. .Mack ! " I have 
also, among uiy couvivial frieuds. srt on 



394 



COERESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



foot a round of toasts, which I call a 
round of Arcadian Shepherdesses ; that is, 
a round of favourite ladies, under female 
names celebrated ni ancient songs ; and 
then, you are my Clarinda. So, my lovely 
Clarinda, I devote this glass of wine to a 
most ardent wish for your happiness ! 

In vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer. 
Point out a cens'ring world, and bid me fear; 
Above that world on wings of love I rise, 
I know its worst, and can that worst despise, 
"Wrong'd, injur'd, shunn'd, iinpitied, un- 

redrest. 
The tnock'd quotation of the scorner's jest," 
Let Prudence' direst bodements on me fall, 
Clarinda, rich reward! o'erpays themall!(145) 

I have been rhyming a little of late, but 
I do Milt know if they are worth postage. — 
Tell me. » » * » 

* • ♦ Sylvan DER. 



NO. CCLVm. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

March 3rd, 1793. 

Since I wrote to you the last lugubrious 
sheet, I have not had time to write you 
farther. When I say that I had not time, 
that, as usual, means, that the three demons, 
indolence, business and ennui, have so 
completely shared my hours among them, as 
not to leave me a five minutes' fragment to 
take up a pen in. 

Thank Heaven, I feel my spirits buoying 
upwards with the renovating year. Now, 
I sliall in good earnest take up Thomson's 
songs. I dare say he thinks I have used 
him unkindly ; and, I must own, with too 
much appearance of truth. A-propos, do 
you know the much-admired old Highland 
air called " The Sutor's Dochter ? " It is a 
tirst-rate favourite of mine, and I have 
written what I reckon one of my best 
songs to it. I will send it to you as it was 
sung, with great applause, in some fashion- 
able circles, by Major Robertson, of Lude, 
who was here with his corps. 

There was one commission that I must 
trouble you with. I lately lost a valuable 
seal, a present from a departed friend, which 
vexes me much. I have gotten one of your 
Highland pebbles, which I fancy would 
make a very decent one, and I want to cut 
my armorial bearing on it : will you be so 
obliging as inquire what will be the expense 
of such a business? I do not know that 



my name is matriculated, as the heralds call 
it, at all, but I have invented arms for my- 
self; so, you know, I shall be chief of the 
name ; and, by courtesy of Scotland, will 
likewise be entitled to supporters. These, 
however, I do not intend having on my seal. 
I am a bit of a herald, and shall give you, 
secundum artem, my arms. On a field, 
azure, a holy bush, seeded, proper, in base; 
a shepherd's pipe and crook, saltier-wise, 
also jiroper, in chief. On a wreath of 
the colours, a wood-lark perching on a sprig 
of bay-tree, proper, for crest. Two mottoes; 
round the top of the crest, Wood notes 
wild; at the bottom of the shield, in the 
usual place. Belter a wee busk than nae bield. 
(146) By the shepherd's pipe and crook, I 
do not mean the nonsense of painters of 
Arcadia, but a stock and horn, and a club, 
such as you see at the head of Allan 
Ramsay, in Allan's quarto edition of the 
" Gentle Shepherd." By the bye, do you 
know Allan? (147) He must be a man of 
very great genius. Why is he not the more 
known ? Has he no patrons ? — or do 
" Poverty's cold wind and crushing rain 
beat keen and heavy " on him ? I once, 
and but once, got a glance of that noble 
edition of the noblest pastoral in the world ; 
and dear as it was, I mean dear as to my 
pocket, I would have bought it but I was 
told that it was printed and engraved for 
subscribers only. He is the only artist 
who has hit genuine pastoral costume. 
What, my dear Cunningliam, is there in 
riches, that they narrow and harden the 
heart so ? I think, that were I as rich as 
the sun, I should be as generous as the 
day ; but as I have no reason to imagine 
my soul a nobler one than any other man's, 
I must conclude that wealth imports a bird- 
lime quality to the possessor, at wliich the 
man, in his native poverty, would have 
revolted. What has led me to this is che 
idea of such merit as Mr. Allan possesses, 
and such riches as a nabob or government 
contractor possesses, and why they do not 
form a mutual league. Let wealth shelter 
and cherish unprotected merit, and the 
gratitude and celebrity of that merit wiD 
richly repay it. R. B. 



NO. CCLIX. 

BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

March 20th, 1793. 

My DEAR Sir — The song prefixed [" Muiy 
Morison"] is one of my juvenile works 1 



TO MRS. BUKNS. 



leave it in your hands. I do not think it 
very remarkable, either for its merits or 
demerits. It is impossible fat least, I feel it 
so in my stinted powers) to be always 
orisjinal, entertaining, and witty. 

What is become of the hst, &c., of your 
songs ? I shall be out of all temper with 
you by and bye I have always looked on 
myself as the prince of indolent corres- 
pondents, and valued myself accordingly ; 
and 1 will not, can not, bear rivalship from 
you, nor any body else. R. B. 



ing a packet to you, and I beg leave to send 
you the enclosed sonnet : though to tell you 
the real truth, the scmnet is a mere pre- 
tence, that I may have the opportunity of 
declaring with how much respectful esteem 
1 have the honour to be, &c. K. U. 



NO. CCLX. 

TO MISS BENSON, 

SINCE MRS. BASIL MONTAGU. 

Dumfries, March 2lst, 1793. 

Madam — Among many things for which 
I envy those hale, long-hved old fellows 
before the flood, is this, in particular — that 
when they met with anybody after their own 
heart, they had a charming long prospect of 
many, many happy meetings with them in 
after-life. 

Now, in this short, stormy, winter-day of 
our fleeting existence, when you, now and 
then, in the chapter of accidents, meet an 
individual whose acquaintance is a real ac- 
quisition, there are all the probabilities 
against you, that you shall never meet with 
that valued character more. On the other 
hand, brief as this miserable being is, it is 
none of the least of the miseries belonging 
to it, that if there is any miscreant whom 
you hate, or creature whom you despise, the 
ill-run of the chances shall be so against 
you, that in the overtakings, turnings, and 
jostlings of life, pop, at some unlucky corner, 
eternally comes the wretch upon you, and 
will not allow your indignation or contempt 
a moment's repose. As I am a sturdy be- 
liever in the powers of darkness, I take these 
to be the doings of that old author of mis- 
chief, the devil. It is well known that he 
has some kind of short-hand way of taking 
down our thoughts; and I make no doubt, 
that he is perfectly acquainted with my sen- 
timents respecting Miss Benson : how much 
I admired her abilities and valued her worth, 
and how very fortunate I thought myself in 
her acquaintance. For this last reason, my 
dear Madam, I must entertain no hopes of 
the very great pleasure of meeting with you 
•gain. 
Miss Uamiltou tells me that she is send- 

3 



NO. CCLXI. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

March, 1793. 

WANDERING WILLIE. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Now tired with wandering, baud awa 
hame; 
Come to my bosom, my ane only dearie, 
And tell me thou brings't me my AA'ilUe 
the same. 

Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our 

parting ; [my ee : 

It was na the blast brought the tear in 

Now welcome the simmer, and Welcome my 

Willie, 

The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Ye hurricanes, rest, in the cave o' your 
slumbers 1 
Oh how your wild horrors a lover alarms 1 
Awaken, ye breezes ! rool gently, ye billows! 
And waft my dear laddie, ance mair to my 
arms. 

But if he's forgotten his faithfullest Nannie, 
Oh still flow between us, thou wide-roar- 
ing main ; 
May I never see it, may 1 never trow it, 
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my 
ain ! 

I leave it to you, my dear Sir, to deter- 
mine whether the above, or the old " Thro' 
the lang muir" (148), be the best. 



NO. CCLXII. 



MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. (149) 

Edinburgh, April 2d, 1793. 

I WILL not recognise the title you give 
yourself, " the prince of indolent correspon- 
dents ; " but if the adjective were taken 
away, I think the title would then tit you 
exactly. It gives me pleasure to find you 
can furnish anecdotes with respect to most 



395 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



of ihe songs : these will be a literary curi- 
osity. 

I now send you my list of the songs, 
which, I believe, will be found nearly com- 
plete. I have put down the first lines of all 
the English songs which 1 propose giving, 
in addition to the Scotch verses. If any 
others occur to you, better adapted to the 
character of the airs, pray mention thera, 
when you favour me with your strictures 
upon everything else relating to the work. 

Pleyel has lately sent me a number of the 
songs, with his symphonies and accompani- 
ments added to them. I wish you were 
here, that I might serve up some of them to 
you with your own verses, by way of dessert 
after diinier. There is so much delightful 
fancy in the symphonies, and such a delicate 
simplicity in the accompaniments — they are 
indeed beyond all praise. 

I am very much pleased with the several 
last productions of your muse : your " Lord 
Gregory," iu my estimation, is more inte- 
resting than Peter's, beautiful as his is. 
Your " Here awa, Willie," must undergo 
some alterations to suit the air. Mr. 
Erskine and I have been conning it over : 
he will suggest what is necessary to make 
thera a fit match. (150) 

The gentleman I have mentioned, whose 
fine taste you are no stranger to, is so well 
pleased, both with the musical and poetical 
part of our work, that he has volunteered 
his assistance, and has already written four 
songs for it, which, by his own desire, I send 
for yoiu: perusal. (151) 



NO. CCLXm. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

April 7th. 1793. 

Thank you, my dear Sir, for your packet. 
You cannot imagine how much this business 
of composing for your publication has added 
to my enjoyments. What with my early 
attachment to ballads, your book, &c., ballad- 
making is now as completely my hobby- 
horse as ever fortification was Uncle Toby's ; 
so I'll e'en canter it away till I come to the 
limit of my race — God grant that I may 
take the right side of the winning post ! — ■ 
and then cheerfully looking back on the 
honest folks with whom I have been happy, 
I shall say or sing, " Sae merry as we a' hae 
been ! " and, raising my last looks to the 
whole human race, the last words of the 
Toice of" Coila" (152) shall be, "Good night, 
and joy be wi' you a' ! " So much for my 



last words : now for a few present remarks 
as they have occurred at random, on looking 
over yoiir list. 

The first lines of "The last time I came 
o'er the moor," and several other lines in it, 
are beautiful ; but, in my opinion — pardon 
me, revered shade of Ramsay ! — the song is 
unworthy of the divine air. I shall try to 
make or mend. " For ever, fortune, wilt 
thou prove," is a charming song ; but 
"Logan burn and Logan braes " is sweetly 
susceptible of rural imagery : I'll try that 
likewise, and, if I succeed, the other song 
may class among the English ones. I re- 
member the two last lines of a verse in some 
of tlie old songs of " Logan Water " (for I 
know a good many different ones) which I 
think prettj' : — 

"Now my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes." 

" My Patie is a lover gay," is unequal. 
" His mind is never muddy," is a muddy ex- 
pression indeed. 

" Then I'll resign and marry Pate, 
And syne my cockernony — " 

This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or 
your book. 

"Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our 

parting, [ee ; 

Fears for ray Willie brought tears in my 

Welcome now simmer, and welcome my 

Willie, 

The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your 

slumbers 

How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 

Wauken. ye breezes ! roll gently, ye billows ! 

And waft my dear laddie ance niair to my 

anus. 

But oh, if he's faithless, and minds nae his 

Nannie, [mam ! 

Flow still between us, thou wide-roanug 

May I never see it, may I never trow it. 

But, dying, believe that my Willie's my 

ain." (153) 

My song, " Rigs of Barley," to the same 
tune, does not altogether please me ; but if 
I can mend it, and thrash a few loose senti- 
ments out of it, I will submit it to your 
consideration. " The lass o' Paties mill " is 
one of Ramsay's best songs ; but there is 
one loose sentiment in it, which my much- 
valued friend Mr. Erskine will take into his 
critical consideration. In Sir John Sinclair's 
statistical volumes, are two claims — one, 1. 
think, from Aberdeeusliire, and the otlier 



TO JOHN FR.\NCIS ERSKINE, ESQ. 



39} 



from Ayrshire — for the honour of this song. 
The following anecdote, wliich I had from 
the present Sir Willinin Cunningham of 
Robertland, who had it of tlie late John 
Earl of Loudon, I can, oa such authorities, 
believe : — 

Allan Kamsay was residing at Loudon- 
castle with the then Earl, father to Earl 
John ; and one forenoon, riding, or walking, 
out together, his lordship and Allan passed a 
sweet romantic spot on Irvine water, still 
called " Patic's mill," where a bonnie lass 
was ''tedding hay, bareheaded on the green." 
My lord observed to Allan, that it would be 
a fine theme for a song. Ramsay took the 
hint, and, lingering behind, he composed 
tl\e first sketch of it, which he produced at 
dinner. 

"One day I heard Mary say," is a fine 
song ; but, for consistency's sake, alter the 
name " Adonis." Were there ever such 
banns published, as a purpose of marriage 
between Adonis and Mary ! I agree with 
you that my song, " There's nought but care 
on every hand," is much superior to"Puir- 
tith cauld." The original song, " The mill, 
mill, O! " though excellent, is, on account 
of delicacy, inadmissible ; still, I like the 
title, and think a Scottish song would suit 
the notes best ; and let your chosen song, 
which is very pretty, follow as an English 
set. " The banks of the Dee," is, you know, 
literally "Langolee," to slow time. The 
song is well enough, but has some false 
imagery in it ; for instance : 

And sweetly the nightingale sang from the 
tree. 

In the first place, the nightingale sings in 
a low bush, but never from a tree ; and in 
the second place, there never was a nightin- 
gale seen or heard on the banks of the Dee, 
or on the banks of any other river in Scot- 
land. Exotic rural imagery is always com- 
paratively flat. If I could hit on another 
stanza, equal to "The small birds rejoice," 
&c., I do myself honestly avow, that I think 
it a superior song. (154) "John Anderson, 
liiy jo ;" — the song to this tune in Johnson's 
Museum, is my composition, and I think it 
not my worst : if it suit you, take it and 
welcome. Your collection of sentimental 
and pathetic song, is, in my opinion, very 
complete; bnt not so your comic ones. 
Where are '' Tullochgorum," " Lumps o' 
puddin," '• Tibbie Fowler," and several 
others, which, in my humble judgment, are 
well worthy of preservation ? There is also 
one sentimental song of mine in the !Mu- 
■eum, which never was known out of the 



immediate neighbourhood, until I got it 
taken down from a country girl's singing. 
It is called " Cragieburn wood," and, in the 
opinion of Mr. Clarke, is one of the sweetest 
Scottish Songs. He is quite an enthusiast 
about it ; and I would take his taste in 
Scottish music against the taste of most 
connoisseurs. 

You are quite right in inserting the last 
five in your list, though they are certainly 
Irish. '■ Shepherds, I have lost my love ! " 
is to me a heavenly air — what would you 
think of a set of Scottish verses to it ? I 
have made one to it, a good while ago, 
which I think * * *^ but in its original 
state, it is not quite a lady's song. I enclose 
an altered, not amended copy for you, if you 
choose to set the tune to it, and let the 
Irish verses follow. (155) 

Mr. Erskine's songs are all pretty, but his 
" Lone vale " is divine. Yours, &c. 

Let me know jast how you like these ran- 
dom hints. 



NO. CCLXIV. 

TO PATRICK MILLER, Eso, 

OP DALSWINTON. 

Dim fries, April, 1793. 

Sir — ily poems having just come out in 
another edition, will you do me the honour 
to accept of a copy ? A mark of my grati- 
tude to you, as a gentleman to whose good- 
ness I have been much indebted ; of my 
respect for you, as a patriot who, in a venal, 
sliding age, stands forth the champion of the 
liberties of ray country; and of my veneration 
for you as a man, whose benevolence of heart 
does honour to human nature. 

There was a time. Sir, when I was your 
dependent : this language then would have 
been like the vile incense of flattery — I could 
not have used it. Now that that connexion 
(156) is at an end, do me the honour to 
accept of this honest tribute of respect from. 
Sir, your much indebted humble servant, 
E. B. 



NO. CCLXV. 

TO JOHN FRANCIS ERSKINE Eso., 

OF MAR. (157) 

Dumfries, April 13th, 1793. 

Sir — 'Degenerate as human nature is said 
to be — and, in many instances, worthless awl 



893 



CORKESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



uiipnncipled it ia — still there are bright 
examples to the contrary ; examples that, 
even ill the eyes of superior beings, must 
shed a lustre on the name of man. 

Such an example have I now before me, 
when you. Sir, came forward to patronise 
and befriend a distant obscure stranf,'er, 
merely because poverty had made hira help- 
less, and his British hardihood of mind had 
provoked the arbitrary wantonness of power. 
My much esteemed friend, Mr. Riddel of 
Glenriddel, has just read me a paragraph of a 
letter he had from you. Accept, Sir, of the 
silent throb of gratitude; for words would 
but mock the emotions of my soul. 

You have been misinformed as to my final 
dismission from the Excise; I am still in the 
service. Indeed, but for the exertions of a 
gentleman, who must be known to you, Mr. 
Graham of Fintry — a gentleman who has 
ever been my warm and generous friend — I 
had, without so much as a hearing, or the 
slightest previous intimation, been turned 
adrift, with my helpless family, to all the 
horrors of want. Had I had any other re- 
source, probably I might have saved them 
the trouble of a dismission ; but the little 
money I gained by publication, is my almost 
every guinea, embarked to save from ruin 
an only brother, who, though one of the 
worthiest, is by no means one of the most 
fortunate of men. 

In my defence to their accusations, I said, 
that whatever might be my sentiments of 
republics, ancient or modern, as to Britain I 
abjured the idea, that a constitution, 
which, in its original principles, experience 
had proved to be every way fitted for our 
happiness in society, it would he insanity to 
sacrifice to an untried visionary theory — 
that, in consideration of my being situated 
in a department, however humble, immedi- 
ately in the hands of people in power, 1 had 
forborne taking any active part, either per- 
sonally or as an author, in the present 
business of reform. But that, where I 
must declare my sentiments, I would say, 
there existed a system of corruption be- 
tween the executive power and the represen- 
tative part of the legislature, which boded 
no good to our glorious constitution, 
and which every patriotic Briton must wish 
to see amended. Some such sentiments as 
these, I stated in a letter to my generous 
patron, Mr. Graham, which he laid before 
the Board at large, where, it seems, my last 
remark gave great offence ; and one of our 
supervisors general, a Mr. Corbet, was in- 
structed to inquire on the spot, and to docu- 
ment me, " that my business waa to act, not 



to think ; and that, whatever might he men 
or measures, it was for me to be silent and 
obedient." 

Mr. Corbet was likewise my steady friend ; 
so between Mr. Graham and him, I have 
been partly forgiven : only I understand that 
all hopes of my getting officially forward 
are blasted. 

Now, Sir, to the business in which I 
would more immediately interest you. The 
partiality of my countrymen has brought 
me forward as a man of genius, and has 
given me a character to support. In the 
poet I have avowed manly and independent 
sentiments, which I trust will be found in 
the man. Reasons of no less weight than 
the support of a wife and family, have 
pointed out as the eligible, and, situated as I 
was, the only eligible, line of life for me, my 
present occupation. Still, my honest fame is 
my dearest concern ; and a thousand times 
have I trembled at the idea of those de- 
I (jradinff epithets that malice or misrepresenta- 
tion may affix to my name. I have often, in 
blasting anticipation, listened to some future 
hackney scribbler, with the heavy malice of 
savage stupidity, exidting in his hireling 
paragraphs — "Burns, notwithstanding the 
fanfaronade of independence to be found in 
his works, and after having been held forth 
to public view, and to public estimation, as a 
man of some genius, yet, quite destitute of 
resources within himself to support his bor- 
rowed dignity, he dwindled into a paltry ex- 
ciseman, and slunk out the rest of his 
insignificant existence in the meanest of pur- 
suits, and among the vilest of mankind." 

In your illustrious hands, Sir, permit me 
to lodge my disavowal and defiance of these 
slanderous falsehoods. Burns was a poor 
man from birth, and an exciseman by neces- 
sity ; but — / wiU say it ! — the sterling of his 
honest worth no poverty could debase ; and 
his independent British mind, oppression 
might bend, but could not subdue. Have 
not I, to me, a more precious stake in ray 
country's welfare, than the richest dukedom 
in it? I have a large family of children, 
and the prospect of many more. I have 
three sons, who, I see already, have brouglit 
into the world souls ill qualified to inhabit 
the bodies of slaves. Can I look tamely 
on, and see any machination to wrest from 
them the birthright of ray boys — the little 
independent Britons, in whose veins runs 
my own blood? No ! I will not, should my 
heart's blood stream around my attempt to 
defend it ! 

Does any man tell me, that my full efforts 
can be of no service, and that it does no* 



TO MR. THOMSON. 



belong to my humble station to meddle 
with the concern of a nation ? 

I can tell him, that it is on such indivi- 
duals as I that a nation has to rest, both 
for the hand of support and the eye of in- 
telligence. The uumformed mob may swell 
a nation's bulk; and the titled, tinsel, 
courtly throng may be its feathered orna- 
ment; but the number of those who are 
elevated enough in life to reason and to 
reflect, yet low enough to keep clear of the 
venal contagion of a court — these are a 
nation's strength ! 

I know not how to apologise for the im- 
pertinent length of this epistle ; but one 
fcmall request I must ask of you farther : — 
when you have honoured this letter with 
a perusal, please to commit it to the flames. 
Burns, in whose behalf you have so gene- 
rously interested yourself, I have here, in his 
native colours, drawn as he is; but should 
Riiy of the people in whose hands is the 
very bread he eats, get the least knowledge 
of the picture, it would rain the poor bard 
for ever ! 

My poems having just come out in another 
edition, I beg leave to present you with a 
copy, as a small mark of that high esteem 
and ardent gratitude with which 1 have the 
honour to be. Sir, your deeply indebted 
and ever devoted liumble servant, R. B. 



NO. CCLXVI. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, April, 1793. 

I REJOICE to find, my dear Sir, that 
ballad-making continues to be your hobby- 
horse. Great pity 'twould be were it other- 
wise. I hope you will amble it away for 
many a year, and " witch the world with 
your horsemanship." 

1 know tliere are a good many lively 
songs of merit that I have not put down in 
the hst sent you ; but I have them all in my 
eye. " My Fatie is a lover gay," though a 
little unequal, is a natural and very pleasing 
song, and I humbly think we ought not 
to displace or alter it, except the last 
■tanza. (ISS) 



NO. CCLXVII. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

April, 1793. 
I HAVE yours, my dear Sir, this moment. 
I shall answer it and vour former letter, in 

3 



my desultory way, of saying whatever cornea 
uppermost. 

I'he business of many of our tunes want- 
ing, at the beginning, what fiddlers call a 
starting-note, is often u rub to us poor 
rhymers. 

" There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes. 
That wander tlirough the bloonuug 
heather," 

you may alter to 

" Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
Ye' wander," &c. 

IMy song, " Here awa, there awa," as 
amended by Mr. Erskine, I entirely approve 
of, and return you. (159) 

Give me leave to criticise your taste in the 
only thing in which it is, in my opinion, 
reprehensible. You know I ought to know 
something of my own trade. Of pathos, 
sentiment and point, you are a complete 
judge ; but there is a quality more necessary 
than either in a song, and which is the very 
essence of a ballad — I mean simplicity : 
now, if I mistake not, this last feature you 
are a little apt to sacrifice to the foregoing. 

Ramsay, as every other poet, has not been 
always equally happy in his pieces ; still, I 
cannot approve of t.iking such liberties with 
an author as Mr. W. proposes doing with 
" The last time I came o'er the moor." Let 
a poet, if he chooses, take up the idea of 
another, and work it into a piece of his 
own ; but to mangle the works of the poor 
bard, whose tuneful tongue is now mute for 
ever, in the dark and narrow house — by 
Heaven, 'twould be sacrilege ! I granc that 
Mr. W.'s version is an improvement ; but I 
know Mr. W. well, and esteem him much ; 
let him mend the song, as the High'tm ler 
mended his gun — he gave it a new slock, a 
new lock, and a new barrel. 

I do not, by this, object to leaving cut 
improper stanzas, where that can be done 
without spoiling the whole. One stanza in 
"The lass o' Patie's mill" must be left out : 
the song will be nothing worse for it. 1 am 
not sure if we can take the same liberty 
with " Corn rigs are bonnie.' Perhaps it 
might want the last stanza, and 1)(! the 
better for it. "Cauld kad in Aberdeen," 
you must leave with me yet a while. I have 
vowed to have a song to that air, on the 
lady whom I attempted to celebrate in the 
verses, " Piiirtith cauld and restless love.*' 
At any rate, my other song, " Green grow 
the rashes," will never suit. That song is 
current in Scotland under the old title, and 
to the merry old tune of that name, which. 



400 



COREESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



of course, would mar the progress of your 
son^ to celebrity. Your book will be the 
standard of Scots songs for the future : let 
this idea ever keep your judgment on the 
alarm. 

I send a song on a celebrated toast in this 
country, to suit "Bonnie Dundee." I send 
you also a ballad to the "Mill, Mill, 
O!"(160) 

" The last time I came o'er the moor," I 
would fain attempt to make a Scots song 
for, and let Ramsay's be the English set. 
You shall hear from me soon. When you 
go to London on this business, can you 
come by Dumfries ? I have still several 
MS. Scots airs by me, which I have picked 
up, mostly from the singing of country 
lasses. They please me vastly; but your 
learned lu;is (Itil) would perhaps be dis- 
pleased with the very feature for which I 
like them. I call them simple ; you would 
pronounce them silly. Do you know a fine 
air called "Jackie Hume's Lament?" I 
have a song of considerable merit to that 
air. I'll enclose you both the song and 
tune, as I had them ready to send to 
Johnson's Museum. (162) I send you like- 
wise, to me, a beautiful little air, which I 
had taken down from viva voce. (163) 
Adieu. 



NO. CCLXVIII, 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. (164) 

\1-Iere the poet inserts the song, lef/inning 
" Farewell, thou Stream, that winding 
Hows."] 

April, 1793. 

My dear Sir — I had scarcely put my 
last letter into the post office, when I took 
up the subject of "Tiie last time I came o'er 
the moor," and, ere I slept, drew the outlines 
of the foregoing. How far I have succeeded, 
I leave on this, as on every other occasion, 
to you to decide. I own my vanity is 
flattered, when you give my songs a place in 
your elegant and superb work ; but to be of 
service to the work is my first wish. As I 
have often told you, I do not in a single 
instance wish you, out of compliment to me, 
to insert any thing of mine. One hint let 
me give you— whatever INlr. Pleyel does, let 
him not alter one iota of the original Scottish 
airs, 1 mean in the song department, but let 
our national music preserve its native 
features. They are, I own, frequently wild 
iutd irreducible to the more modern rules ; 



but on that very eccentricity, perhaps, d^ 
pends a great part of their effect. 



NO. CCLXIS. 



MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, April 26th, 1793. 

I HEARTILY thank you, my dear Sir, fof 
your last two letters, and the songs which 
accompanied them. I am always both in- 
structed and entertained by your observa- 
tions ; and the frankness with which you 
speak out your mind, is to me highly agree- 
able. It is very possible I may not have the 
true idea of simplicity in composition. I 
confess there are several songs, of AUaa 
Ramsay's for example, that I think silly 
enough, which another person, more con- 
versant than I have been with country 
people, would perhaps call simple and 
natural. But the lowest scenes of simple 
nature will not please generally, if copied 
precisely as they are. 'i'he poet, like the 
painter, must select what will form an agree- 
able, as well as a natural picture. On this 
subject it were easy to enlarge ; but, at 
present, suffice it to say, that I consider 
simplicity, rightly understood, as a most 
essential quahty in composition, and the 
groundwork of beauty in all the arts. I 
will gladly appropriate your most interesting 
new ballad, " When wild war's deadly blast," 
&c., to the "Mill, Mill, 0!" as well as the 
two other songs to their respective airs ; but 
the third and fourth lines of the first verse 
must undergo some little alteration in order 
to suit the music. Pleyel does not alter a 
single note of the songs. That would be 
absurd indeed ! With the airs which he 
introduces into the sonatas, I allow him to 
take such liberties as he pleases ; but that 
has nothing to do with the songs. 

P.S. I wish you would do as you pro- 
posed with your " Rigs of Barley." If the 
loose sentiments are thrashed out of it, I 
will find an air for it ; but as to this there is 
no hurry. 



NO. CCLXX. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

April 26th, 1793. 

I AM out of humour, my dear Aiuslie, 

and that is the reason why I take up the 



TO MISS KENNEDY. 



401 



pen to you : 'tis the nearest way (prohalum 
eil) to recover my spirits again. 

I received your last, and was much enter- 
tained witli it ; but I will not at tliis time, 
nor at any other time, answer it. Answer a 
letter !— I never could answer a letter in my 
life. I have written many a letter in return 
for letters I have received < but then — they 
were original matter — spurt-away ! — zig, 
here, zag, there — as if the devil, that my 
grannie (an old woman, indeed) often tuld 
me, rode on will-o'-wisp, or, in her more 
classic phrase, Spunkie, were looking over 
my elbow. Happy thought that idea has 
engendered in my head! Spunkte, thou 
•halt henceforth be my symbol, signature, 
and tutelary genius ! Like thee, hop-step- 
and-loup, here-awa-there-awa, higgledy-pig- 
gledy, pell-mell, hither-and-yont, ram-stam, 
happy-go-lucky, up tails-a'-by-the-light-o'- 
the-moon — has been, is, and shall be, my 
progress through the mosses and moors of 
tins vile, bleak, barren wilderness of a life of 
ours. 

Come, then, ray guardian spirit ! like 
thee, may I skip away, amusing myself by 
and at my own light ; and if any opaque- 
Rouled lubber of mankind complain that my 
eltin, lambent, glimmerous wanderings have 
misled his stupid steps over precipices or 
into bogs, let the thick-headed Blunder- 
buss recollect that he is not Spunkie : — 
that 

Spunkie's wanderings could not copied 

be: 
Amid these perils none durst walk but he. 



I have no doubt but Scholarcraft may be 
caught, as a Scotsman catches the itch, by 
friction. How else can you account for it, 
that born blockheads, by mere dint of hand- 
linrj books, grow so wise that even they 
themselves are equally convinced of, and 
surprised at their own parts ? I once carried 
this philosophy to that degree, that in a 
knot of country folks who had a library 
amongst them, and who, to the honour of 
their good sense, made me factotum in the 
business, — one of our members, a little, wise- 
looking, squat, upright, jabbering body of a 
tailor, I advised him, instead of turning over 
the leaves, to hind the book on Ids back. 
JoUnnie took the hint, and as our meetings 
were every fourth Saturday, and Pricklouse 
Laving a good Scots mile to walk in coming, 
and, of course, another in returning. Bodkin 
was sure to lay his hand on some heavy 
quarto or ponderous folio, with, and uudei 



which, wrapt in his grey plaid, he grew wise, 
as he grew weary, all the way home. He 
carried tliis so far, that an old musty Hebrew 
concordance, which we had in a present from 
a neighbouring priest, by mere dint of ap- 
plying it, as doctors do a blistering plaster, 
between bis shoidders. Stitch, in a dozen 
pilgrimages, acquired as much rational theo- 
logy as the said priest had done by forty 
years' perusal of the pages. 

Tell me, and tell me truly, what you think 
of this theory. Yoiurs, Spunkie. 



NO. CCLXXl. 



TO j\IISS KENNEDY. 

Madam — Permit me to present you with 
the enclosed song, as a small though grateful 
tribute for the honour of your acquaintance. 
I have, in these verses, attempted some faint 
sketches of your portrait in the unembel- 
lished, simple manner of descriptive truth. 
Flattery I leave to your lovers, whose 
exaggerating fancies may make them imagine 
you still nearer perfection than you really 
are. 

Poets, Madam, of all mankind, feel most 
forcibly the powers of beauty ; as, if they 
are really poets of nature's making, their 
feelings must be finer, and their taste more 
delicate, than most of the world. In the 
clioerful bloom of spring, or the pensive 
mildness of AUTUMN, the grandeur of sum- 
mer, or the hoary majesty of winter, the 
poet feels a charm unknown to the rest of 
his species. Even the sight of a fine flower, 
or the company of a fine woman (by far the 
finest part of God's works below), have sen- 
sations for the poetic heart that the herd 
of men are strangers to. On this last ac- 
count, ]\Ia(lam, I am, as in many other 
things, indebted to Mr. Hamilton's knidnesa 
in introducing me to you. Your lovers may 
view you with a wish, I look on you with 
pleasure ; their hearts, in your presence 
may glow with desire, mine rises with admi- 
ration. 

That the arrows of misfortune, however 
they should, as incident to humanity, glance 
a slight wound, may never reach your heart 
— that the snares of villany may never beset 
you in the road of life— that innocence 
may hand you by the path of honour to 
the dwelling of peace — is the sincere wish 
of him who has the honour to be, &c. 

R. B. 



402 



COERESrONDENCE OP BURNS. 



NO. CCLXXIl. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

June, 1793. 

When I tell j'ou, my dear Sir, that a 
friend of mine, in whom I am much in- 
terested, has fallen a sacrifice to these 
accursed times, you will easily allow that it 
might unhinge me for doing any good 
among ballads. My own loss, as to pecu- 
niary matters, is trifling ; but the total ruin 
of a much-loved friend is a loss indeed. 
Pardon my seeming inattention to your last 
commands. 

I cannot alter the disputed lines in the 
"Jlill, Mdl, O!" (1G5) What you think a 
defect, I esteem as a positive beauty ; so 
you see how doctors differ. I shall now, 
with as much alacrity as I can muster, go 
on with your commands. 

You know Frazer, the hautboy-player in 
Edinburgh — he is here, instructing a band 
of music for a fencible corps cpiartered in 
this county. Among many of his airs that 
please me, there is one, well known as a reel, 
by the name of " The Quaker's AVife ;" and 
which, I remember, a grand-aunt of mine 
used to sing, by the name of " Liggeram 
Cosh, my bonnie wee lass." Mr. Frazer 
plays it slow, and with aii expression that 
quite charms me. 1 became such an enthu- 
siast about it, that ] made a song for it, 
which I here subjoin, and enclose Frazer's 
set of the tune, if they hit your fancy, 
they are at your service ; if not, return me 
the tune, and 1 will put it in Johnson's 
Museum. I think the song is not in my 
worst manner. 

[Here Burns inserts the song " Blythe hue I 

been on yon Hill."} 

I should wish to hear how this pleases 
you. 



NO. CCLXXIII. 

BURNS TO JIR. THOMSON. 

Jane 25th, 1793. 

Have you ever, my dear Sir, felt your 
bosom ready to burst with indignation, on 
reading of those mighty villains who divide 
kingdom against kingdom, desolate pro- 
vinces, and lay nations waste, out of the 
wantonness of ambition, or often from still 
more ignoble passions ? In a mood of this 
kmd to-day I recollected the air of " Logan 
IVater," and it occurred to me that its 



querulous melody probably had its origin 
from the plaintive indignation of some 
swelling, suffering heart, fired at the tyrannic 
strides of some public destroyer, and over- 
whelmed with private distress, the conse- 
quence of a country's ruin. If I have done 
any thing at all like justice to my feelings, 
the following song, composed in three-quar- 
ters of an hour's meditation in my elbow- 
chair, ought to have some merit : — 
IHere is inserted the song," Logan Braes.""] 

Do you know the following beautiful 
little fragment, in Witherspoon's collection 
of Scots songs ? 

Air — "Hughie Graham." 
"Oh gin my love were yon red rose. 
That grows upon the castle wa'; 
And I mysel' a drap o' dew. 
Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! 

Oh there, beyond expression blest, 
I'd feast on beauty a' the night, 

Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest. 
Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light !" 

This thought is inexpressibly beautiful ; 
and quite, so far as 1 know, original. It is 
too short for a song, else I would forswear 
you altogether, unless you gave it a place. 
I have often tried to eke a stanza to it, but 
in vain. After balancing myself for a musing 
five minutes, on the hind-legs of my elbow- 
chair, I produced the following. 

The verses are far inferior to the fore- 
going, I frankly confess ; but if worthy of 
insertion at all, they might be first in place ; 
as every poet wlio knows any thing of his 
trade, .vill husband his best thoughts for a 
concluding stroke. 

Oh were my love yon lilac fair, 

Wi' purple blossoms to the spring ; 

And I, a bird to shelter there, 
When wearied on my little wing ! 

How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 

But I wad sing on wanton wing, 

When youthfu' ilay its bloom renewed. 



NO. CCLXXIV. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Monday, July Is', 1793. 

I AM extremely sorry, my good Sir, tiiat 
any thing should happen to unhinge you. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



403 



The time3 are terribly out of tune, and when 
harmony will be restored, Heaven knows. 

The first book of songs, just published, 
will be dispatched to you along with this. 
Let me be favoured with your opinion of it, 
frankly and freely. 

I shall certainly give a place to the song 
you have written for the "Quaker's Wife ;" 
it is quite enchanting. Pray, will you return 
the list of songs, with such airs added to it 
as you think ought to be included? The 
business now rests entirely on myself, the 
gentlemen who originally agreed to join the 
speculation having requested to be oif. No 
matter, a loser I cannot be. The superior 
excellence of the work will create a general 
demand for it, as soon as it is properly 
known; and were the sale even slower than 
it promises to be, I should be somewhat 
compensated for my labour, by the pleasure 
I shall receive from the music. I cannot 
express how much 1 am obliged to you for 
the exquisite new songs you are sending 
me; but thanks, my friend, are a poor 
return for what you have done — as I shall 
be benefited by the publication, you must 
suffer me to enclose a small mark of my 
gratitude (16G), and to repeat it afterwards 
M'heu I find it convenient. Do not return 
it, for, by Heaven ! if you do, our corres- 
pondence is at an end ; and though this 
would be no loss to you, it would mar the 
publication, which, under your auspices, can- 
not fail to be respectable and interesting. 

Wednesday Morninj. 
I thank you for your delicate additional 
verses to the old fragment, and for your 
excellent song to " Logan \Vater :" — Thom- 
son's truly elegant one will follow for the 
Enghsh singer. Your apostrophe to states- 
men is admirable, but I am not sure if it is 
quite suitable to the supposed gentle cha- 
racter of the fair mourner who speaks it. 



NO. CCLXXV. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

July 2nd, 1793. 

My dear Sir — I have just finished the 
following ballad, and, as 1 do think it in my 
best style, I send it you. i\Ir. Clarke, who 
wrote down the air from !Mrs. Burns's 
wood-note wild, is very fond of it, and has 
given it a celebrity by teaching it to some 
young ladies of the first fashion here. If 
you do not like the air enough to give it a 



place in your collection, please return it. 
The song you may keep, as I remember it. 

[Here follows the song of " Bonnie Jean."'\ 

I have some thoughts of inserting in 
your index, or in my notes, the names of 
the fair ones, the themes of my songs. I 
do not mean the name at full ; but dashes 
or asterisks, so as ingenuity may find them 
out. 

The heroine of the foregoing is Miss iL, 
daughter to Mr. M., of D., one of your 
subscribers. I have not painted her in the 
rank which she holds in life, but in the dress 
aiid character of a cottager. 



NO. CCLXXVI. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

July, 1793. 

I ASSURE you, my dear Sir, that you 
truly hurt me with your pecuniary parcel. 
It degrades me in my own eyes. However, 
to return it would savour of affectation; 
but, as to any more traffic of that debtor 
and creditor kind, I swear, by that Honour 
which crowns the upright statue of Robert 
Burns's Integrity — on the least motion 
of it, I will indignantly spurn the bypast 
transaction, and from that moment com- 
mence entire stranger to you ! Burns's 
character for generosity of sentiment and 
independence of mind, will, I trust, long 
outlive any of his wants which the cold 
unfeeling ore can supply : — at least, I will 
take care that such a character he shall 
deserve. 

Thank you for my copy of your publica- 
tion. Never did my eyes behold in any 
musical work such elegance and correctness. 
Your preface, too, is admirably written, only 
your partiality to me has made you say too 
much : however, it will bind me down to 
double every effort in the future progress of 
the work. The following are a few remarks 
on the songs in the list you sent me. I 
never copy what I write to you, so I may 
be often tautological, or perhaps con- 
tradictory. 

" The Flowers o' the Forest," is charming 
as a poem, and should be, and must be, set 
to the notes ; but, though out of your rule, 
the three stanzas beginning, 

"I have seen the smihng o* fortune b©- 
guiling," 



404 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



are worthy of a place, were it but to im- 
mortalise the author of them, who is an old 
lady of my acquaintance, and at this 
moment living in Edinburgh. She is a 
Mrs. Cockburn, I forget of what place, but 
from Roxburghshire. (167) What a charm- 
ing apostrophe is 

" Oh fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting. 
Why, why torment us, poor sons of a day ! " 

The old ballad, "I wish I were where 
Helen lies," is silly, to contemptibility. My 
alteration of it, in Johnson's, is not much 
better. Mr. Pinkerton, in bis, what he calls, 
ancient ballads (many of them notorious, 
though beaiitiful enough, forgeries), has the 
best set. It is full of his own interpolations 
— but no matter. 

In my next, I will suggest to your con- 
sideration a few songs which may have 
escaped your hurried notice. In the mean- 
time, allow me to congratulate you now, as a 
brother of the quill. You have committed 
your character and fame, which will now be 
tried, for ages to come, by the illustrious 
jury of the Sons and Daughters of 
Taste — all whom poesy can please, or 
music charm. 

Being a bard of nature, I have some pre- 
tensions to second sight ; and I am war- 
ranted by the spirit to fortell and affirm, 
that your great-grand-child will hold up 
your volumes, and say, with honest pride, 
" This so much admired selection was the 
work of my ancestor 1 " 



KO. CCLXXVIl. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, August \st, 1793. 

Dear Sir — I had the pleasure of receiving 
your last two letters, and am happy to find 
you are quite pleased with the appearance of 
the first book. When you come to hear the 
songs sung and accompanied, you will be 
charmed with them. 

"The bonnie brucket lassie" certainly de- 
serves better verses, and I hope you will 
match her. "Cauld kail in Aberdeen," "Let 
me in this ane night," and several of the live- 
lier airs, wait the muse's leisure; these are 
peculiarly worthy of her choice gifts; besides, 
you'll notice, that in airs of this sort the 
singer can always do greater justice to the 
poet, than in the slower airs of " The bush 
aboon Traquair," " Lord Gregory," and the 



like; for, in the manner the latter were 
frequently sung, you must be contented 
with the sound, without the sense. Indeed, 
both the airs and words are disguised by the 
very slow, languid, psalm-singing style iu 
which they are too often performed ; they 
lose animation and expression altogether, 
and, instead of speaking to the mind, or 
touching the heart, they cloy upon the ear, 
and set us a-yawning I 

Your ballad, " There was a Lass, and she 
was fair," is simple and beautiful, and shall, 
undoubtedly grace my collection. 



NO. CCLXXVIII. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 

My Dear Thomson — I hold the pen 
for our friend Clarke, who at present is 
studying the music of the spheres at my 
elbow. The Georgium Sidus he thinks is 
rather out of tune ; so, until he rectify that 
matter, he cannot stoop to terrestrial 
affairs. 

He sends you six of the rondeau subjects, 
and if more are wanted, he says you shall 
have them. R. B. 

Confound your long stairs ! 

S. Clarkb. 



NO. CCLXXIX. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 

Your objection, my dear Sir, to the pas- 
sages in my song of " Logan Water," ia 
right ir one instance ; but it is difficult to 
mend it : if I can, I will. The other passage 
you object to does not appear in the same 
light to me. 

I have tried my hand on " Robin Adair," 
and, you will probably think, with little 
success ; but it is such a cursed, cramp, out- 
of-the-way measure, that I despair of doiug 
anything better to it. 

[Here follows "Phillls the Fair."'] 

So much for namby-pamby. I may, after 
all, try my hand on it in Scots verse. There 
I always find myself most at home. 

I have just put the last hand to the song 
I meant for " Cauld kail in Aberdeen." If 



BURNS TO MIL THOMSON. 



40§ 



it suits you to insert it, I shall be pleased, as 
tlie heroine is a favourite of mine ; if not, I 
shall also be pleased ; because I wish, and 
will be glad to see you act decidedly in the 
business. 'Tis a tribute as a man of taste, 
and as an editor, which you owe yourself. 



NO. CCLXXX. 

MR. THOJISON TO BURNS. 

August, 1793. 

My Good Sir — I consider it one of the 
most agreeable circumstances attending this 
publication of mine, that it has procured me 
so many of your much-valued epistles. Pray 
make my acknowledgements to St. Stephen 
for the tunes ; tell him I admit the justness 
of his complaint on my staircase, conveyed 
in his laconic postscript to your jeu d'esprit, 
which I perused more than once, without 
discovering exactly whether your discussion 
was music, astronomy, or politics ! though a 
sagacious friend, acquainted with the con- 
vivial habits of the poet and the musician, 
offered me a bet of two to one you were just 
drowning care together ; that an empty 
bowl was the only thing that would deeply 
affect you, and the only matter you could 
then study how to remedy I 

I shall be glad to see you give "Robin 
Adair" a Scottish dress. Peter is furnishing 
him with an English suit for a change, and 
you are well matched together. Robin's air 
is excellent, though he certainly has an out- 
of-the-way measure as ever poor Parnassian 
wight was plagued with. 1 wish you would 
invoke the muse for a single elegant stanza 
to be substituted for the concluding objec- 
tionable verses of "Down the Burn Davie," 
80 that this most exquisite song may no 
longer be excluded from good company. 

Mr. Allan has made an inimitable drawing 
from your " John Anderson, my jo," which 
I am to have engraved as a frontispiece to 
the humorous class of songs ; you will be 
quite charmed with it, I promise you. The 
old couple are seated by the lireside. Mrs. 
Anderson, in great good humour, is clapping 
John's shoulders, while he smiles and looks 
at her with such glee, as to show that he 
fully recollects the i)leasaiit days and nights 
when they were " first acqnent.'' The 
drawing would do honour to the pencil of 
Teuiera. 



NO. CCI.XXXI. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 

That crinkum-crankura tune, " Robin 
Adair," has run so in my head, and I suc- 
ceeded so ill in my last attempt, that I have 
ventured, in this morning's walk, one essay 
more. You, my dear Sir, will remember au 
unfortunate part of our worthy friend Cun- 
nuighani's story, which happened about 
three years ago. That struck my fancy, and 
I endeavoured to do the idea justice as 
follows : — 

[Here follows "Had I a Cave."] 
By the way, I have met with a musical 
Highlander in Breadalbane's Fencibles, which 
are quartered here, who assures me that he 
well remembers his mother singing Gaelic 
songs to both " Robin Adair" and " Grania- 
cliree." They certainly have more of the 
Scotch than Irish taste in them. 

This man comes from the vicinity of 
Inverness: so it could not be any intercourse 
with Ireland that could bring them ; except, 
what I shrewdly suspect to be the case, the 
wandering minstrels, harpers and pipers, 
used to go frequently errant through the 
wilds both of Scotland and Ireland, and so 
some favourite airs might be common to both. 
A case in point — they have lately, in Ireland, 
published an Irish air, as they say, called 
"Caun du delis." The fact is, in a publication 
of Corri's, a great while ago, you will find 
the same air, called a Highland one, with a 
Gaelic song set to it. Its name there, I 
think, is " Oran Gaoil," and a fine air it is. 
Do ask honest Allan, or the Rev. Gaelic 
parson, about these matters. 



NO. CCLXXXII. 

BURNS TO MR. THOilSON. 

August, 1793. 

My Dear Sir — " Let me in this ane 
night," I will reconsider. I am glad that you 
are pleased with my song, " Had 1 a Cave," 
&c., as I liked it myself 

I walked out yesterday evening with a 
volume cf the Museum in my hand, '.vheii, 
turning up "Allan "Water," "What numbers 
shall the muse repeat," &c, as the uords 
appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine 
an air, and recollecting that it is on your 
list, I sat and ra^ed under the shade *f tri 



406 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



old thorn, till I wrote one to suit the measure. 
1 may be \\Tonoj; but I think it is not in iny 
vrorst style. You must know, that in Ram- 
say's Tea-table, where the modern song lirst 
appeared, the ancient name of the tune, 
Allan says, is " Allan Water," or " My love 
Annie's very bonnie." This last has cer- 
tainly been a line of the original song; so I 
took up the idea, and, as you will see, have 
introduced the line in its place, which I 
presume it formerly occupied ; though I like- 
wise give you a choosing line, if it should 
not hit the cut of your fancy : 

[Here follows "By Allan stream I chanc'd 
to rove."] 

Bravo ! say I ; it is a good song. Should 
you think so too (not else), you can set the 
music to it, and let the other follow as 
English verses. . 

Autumn is my propitious season. I make 
more vrses in it than all the year else. 
God bless you I 



NO. CCLXXXIII. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 

Is "AVhistle and I'll come to you, my 
lad," one of your airs ? I adniire it much ; 
and yesterday I set the following verses to 
it. Urbani, whom I liave met with here, 
begged them of me, as he admires the air 
much ; but as I understand that he looks 
with rather an evil eye on your work, I did 
not choose to comply. However, if the song 
does not suit your taste, I may possibly send 
it him. The set of the air which I had in 
my eye is in Johnson's Museum. 

[Here follows " Oh whistle, and I'll come 
to you."] 

Another favourite air of mine is, "The 
muckiu''o' Geordie's byre." When sung 
slow, with expression, I have wished that it 
had had better poetry ; that I have endea- 
voured to supply as follows : — 

[Here he gives the song " Adown winding 

Nith."] 

Mr. Clarke begs you to give Miss Phillis 
a corner in your book, as she is a particular 
flame of his. She is a Miss Phillis M':Murdo, 
sister to " Bonnie Jean." They are both 
pupils of his. You shall hear from me, the 
very tirst grist I get from my rhyming-miU. 



NO. CCLXXXIV. 

BURNS TO MR. THOIMSON. 

August, 1793. 

That tune, " Cauld kail," is such a fovo- 
rite of yours, that I once more roved out 
yesterday for gloamin-shot at the muses (168); 
when the muse that presides o'er the shorea 
of Nith, or rather my old inspiring dearest 
nymph, Coila, whispered me the following. 
I have two reasons for thinking that it was 
my early, sweet, simple inspirer that was by 
my elbow, "smooth gliding without step," 
and pouring the song on my glowing fancy;— 
In the first place, since I left Coila's native 
haunts, not a fragment of a poet has arisen 
to cheer her solitary musings, by catching 
inspiration from her, so I more than suspect 
that she has followed me hither, or, at least, 
makes me occasional visits; secondly, the 
last stanza of this song I send you, is in the 
very words that Coila taught me many years 
ago, and which I set to an old Scots reel iu 
Johnson's iluseura. 

[Here follows " Come, let me take thee."] 

If you think the above will suit your idea 
of your favourite air, I shall be highly 
pleased. "The last time I came o'er the 
moor " I cannot meddle with, as to mending 
it ; and the musical world have been so long 
accustomed to Ramsay's words, that a 
dilfercnt song, though positively superior, 
would not be so well received. I am not 
fond of choruses to songs, so I have not 
made one for the foregoing. 



NO. CCLXXXV. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. (169) 
August, 1793. 

So much for Davie. The chorus, you 
know, is to the low part of the tune. See 
Clarke's set of it in the Museum. 

N.B. In the Museum they have drawled 
out the tune to twelve lines of poetry, which 

is nonsense. Four lines of soug, 

and four of chorus, is the way. 



TO 



NO. CCLXXXVI. 

MISS CRAIK. (170) 

Dumfries, August, 1793. 

!Madam — Some rather unlooked-for acci- 
dents have prevented my doin^ myself the 



TO LADY GI EXCAIRX. 



407 



honour < ' a second visit to Arbigland, as I 
was so hospitably invited, and so positively 
meant to liave done. However, I still hope 
to have that jik-asiire before the busy 
months of harvest beyin. 

I enclose you two of my late pieces, as 
some kind of return for the pleasure 1 have 
received in perusing a certain MS. volume of 
poenis in tiie possession of Captain Kiddel. 
To repay one w ith an old soitr/, is a proverb, 
whose force, you, Madam. 1 know, will not 
allow. A\ hat is said of illustrious descent 
IS, I believe, equally true of a talent for 
poetry— none ever despised it who had pre- 
tensions to it. The fates and characters of ! 
the rhyminsT tribe often employ my thonjrhts 
wlien I am disposed to be melancholy. There 
is not, anionic all the martyrolo^es that 
ever were penned, so rueful a narrative as 
the lives of the poets. In the comparative 
view of wretches, the criterion is not what 
they are doomed to suffer, but how they 
tre formed to bear. Take a being of our 
kind, give hiiu a stronger imagination and 
a more delicate sensibility, which between 
them will ever engender a more ungovern- 
able set of passions than are the usual lot 
ot man ; implant in him an irresistible im- 
pulse to some idle vagary, sucii as arranging 
wild llowers in fantastical nosegays, tracing 
the grasshopper to his haunt by his chirp- 
ing s(uig, watching the frisks of the little 
muiiious in the sunny pool, or hunting after 
the intrigues of butterflies^in short, send 
hira adrift after some pursuit which shall 
eternally mislead him from the paths of 
lucre, and yet curse him with a keener 
relish than any man living for the pleasures 
that lucre can purchase ; lastly, hll up the 
measure of his woes by bestowing on him a 
spurning sense of his own dignity — and you 
have created a wight nearly as miserable as 
a poet. To yon. Madam, I need not recount 
the fiiiry pleasures the muse bestows, to 
counterbalance this catalogue of evils. Be- 
witching pcictry is like bewitching woman : 
she has, in all ages, been accused of mislead- 
ing mankind from the councils of wisdom 
and the jialhs of prudence, involving them 
in difficulties, baiting them with poverty, 
branding them with infamy, and plunging 
thein in the whirling vortex of ruin; yet, 
wliere is the man but must own that all our 
happiness on earth is not worthy the name — 
that e\en the holy hermit's solitary prospect 
of paradisiacal bliss is but the glitter of a 
northern sun ri.-.ing over a fnizcn region, 
compared with the many pleasures, the 
nameless raptures, that we owe to tlie lovely j 
queeu of the heart of mau ! K. B. I 

36 



NO. CCLXXXVII. 

TO LADY GLENCAIRN (171). 
]\Iy Lady — The honour you have done 
your poor poet, in writing him so very 
obliging a letter, and the pleasure the en- 
closed beautiful verses have given him, came 
very seasonably to his aid, amid the cheerless 
gloom and sinking despondency of diseased 
nerves and IJecember weather. As to for- 
getting the family of Glencairn, Heaven is 
my witness with what sincerity I could use 
those old verses, which please me more in 
their rude simplicity than the most elegant 
lines I ever saw. 

"If thee, Jerusalem, I forget. 

Skill part from my right hand. 
My tongue to my mouth's roof let cleave, 

Jfl do thee forget, 
Jerusalem, and thee above 

My chief joy do not set." 

"When I am tempted to do anything im- 
proper, I dare not, because I look on myself 
as accountable to your ladyship and family. 
Now and then, when I have the honour to 
be called to the tables of the great, if I 
happen to meet with any mortilication from 
the stately stupidity of self-sufficient squires, 
or the luxurious insolence of upstart nabobs, 
1 get above the creatures by calling to re- 
membrance that I am patronised by the noble 
house of Glencairn ; and at gala-times, such 
as New-year's day, a christening, or the kirn- 
night, wlieu my punch-bowl is brought from 
its dusty corner, and tilled up in honour of 
the occasion, 1 begin with — Tlie Countess of 
Glencairn! My good woman, with the en- 
thusiasm of a grateful heart, next cries. My 
Lord ! and so the toast goes on until I end 
with Lddi/ Harriet's little aiii/et I (172) 
whose epiihalamium I liavc pledged myself 
to write. 

When I received your ladyship's letter, I 
was just in the aut of transcribing for you 
some verses I have lately e(nni)osed ; and 
meant to have sent .them my lirst leisure 
hour, and acquainted you with my late 
change of life. 1 mentioned to my lord my 
fears concerning my farm. '1 hose fears were 
indeed too true ; it is a bargain would have 
ruined me, but for the lucky circumstance 
of my having an Excise commission. 

l'eo|)le may talk as they please of the ig- 
nominy of the Excise; £.')() a year will sup- 
port my wife and childien, and keep me 
independent of the world; and I would 
much rather have it said that my profession 
borrowed credit from me, than that 1 bor- 
rowed credit from my profession. Another 



40a 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



advantage I have in this business, is the 
knowledge it gives me of the various shades 
of human character, consequently assisting 
me vastly in my poetic pursuits. I had the 
most ardent enthusiasm for the muses when 
nobody knew me but myself, and that ardour 
is by no means cooled, now that my Lord 
Glencairn's goodness has introduced me to 
all the world. Not that I am in haste for 
the press. 1 liave no idea of publishing, else 
I certainly had consulted my noble generous 
jiatron ; but after acting the part of an 
honest man, and supporting my family, my 
whole wishes and views are directed to 
poetic pursuits. I am aware that, though I 
were to give performances to the world supe- 
rior to my former works; still, if they were 
of the same kind with those, the compara- 
tive reception they would meet with, would 
nortify me. I have turned my thoughts on 
the drama. I do not mean the stately 
buskin of the tragic muse. 

Does not your ladyship think that an 
Edinburgh theatre would be more amused 
with affectation, folly, and whim of true 
Scottish growth, than manners, which by far 
the greatest part of the audience can only 
know at second hand? I have the honour 
to be, your ladyship's ever devoted and grate- 
ful humble servant, R. B. 



NO. CCLXXXVm. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinbiinjh, Sept. 1st, 1793. 

My Dear Sir — Since writing you last, I 
have received half a dozen songs, with which 
I am delighted beyond expression. The 
humour and fancy of " Whistle, and I'll 
come to you, my lad," will render it nearly 
as great a favourite as "Duncan Gray." 
" Come, let me take thee to my breast," 
"Adowii winding Nith," and "By Allan 
stream," &c., are full .of imagination and 
feeling, and sweetly suit the airs for which 
they are intended. " Had I a cave on some 
wild distant shore," is a striking and affect- 
ing composition. Our friend, to whose story 
it refers, reads it with a swelling heart, I 
assure you. The union we are now forming, 
I think, can never be broken ; these songs 
of yours will descend, with the music, to tlie 
latest posterity, and will be fondly cherished 
so long as genius, taste, and sensibility, 
fifj^isc ill our i:>land. 



Whilst the muse seems so propitious, I 

think it right to enclose a list of all the 
favours I have to ask of her — no fewer than 
twenty- and three! I have burdened the 
p'easant Peter with as many as it is probable 
he will attend to ; most of the remaining 
airs would puzzle the English poet not a 
little — they are of that peculiar measure and 
rhythm, that they must be famihar to him 
who writes for them. 



NO. CCLXXXIX. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
Sept., 1793. 

You may readily trust, my dear Sir, that 
any exertion in my power is heartily at your 
service. But one thing 1 must hint to you ; 
the very name of Peter Pindar is of great 
service to your publication, so get a verse 
from him now and then ; though I have no 
objection, as well as 1 can. to bear the burden 
of the business. 

You know that my pretensions to musical 
taste are merely a few of nature's instincts, 
untaught and untutored by art. For this 
reason, many musical curapositions, particu- 
larly where much of the merit lies in coun- 
terpoint, however they may transport and 
ravish the ears of you connoisseurs, affect 
my simple lug no otherwise than merely as 
melodious din. Oh the other hand, by way 
of amends, 1 am delighted with many little 
melodies, which the learned musician despises 
as silly and insipid. 1 do not know whether 
the old air, " Hey tuttie taitie," may rank 
among this number ; but well I know that, 
with i'Vazer's hautboy, it has often tilled my 
eyes with tears. There is a tradition, which 
I have met with in many places in Scotland, 
that it was Robert Bruce's march at the 
battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in 
my solitary wanderings, warmed me to a 
pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of liberty 
and independence, which I threw into a kind 
of Scottish ode, fitted to the air, that one 
miglit suppose to be the gallant Koyal Scot's 
address to his heroic followers on that 
eventful morning. 

BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCK^ 
BURN. 

Tune — Iley tuttie taitie. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led. 
Welcome to your gory bed. 
Or to victory ! 



MR. TirOMSUN TO BURNS. 



409 



Now's the day, and now's the hour: 
See the front o' battle lour : 
See approach proud Edward's power — 
Chains and slavery. 

Wha will be a traitor-ktiave? 
Wild can fill a coward's sjrave? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Let him turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa', 
Let him follow me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains. 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 

But they shall be free! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! — ■ 

Let us do or die ! 

So may God ever defend the cause of 
truth and liberty, as he did that day ! 
Amen. 

P. S. I showed the air to Urbani, who was 
hiichly pleased with it, and begged me to 
make soft verses for it ; but 1 had no idea 
of giving myself any trouble on the subject, 
till the accidental recollection of that glorious 
struggle for freedom, associated with the 
glowing ideas of some other struggles of the 
same nature, not quite so ancient, roused my 
rhyming mania. Clarke's set of the tune, 
with his bass, you will find in the JMuseum, 
though I am afraid that the air is not what 
will entitle it to a place in yoxur elegant 
selection. 



vo. ccxc. 
BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Sept. 1793. 

I DARE say, my dear Sir, that you will 
begin to think my correspondence is perse- 
cution. No matter, [ can't help it; a ballad 
is my hnbby-horse, which, though otherwise 
a simple sort of harmless idiotical beast 
enough, has yet this blessed headstrong 
property, that when once it has fairly made 
off with a hapless wight, it gets so enamoured 
with the tiugle-gingle, tingle-gingle of its 
own bells, that it is sure to run poor pilgar- 
lick, tiie bedlam jockey, quite beyond any 
useful point or post in the common race of 
men. 



The following song I have composed for 
" Oran-gaoil," the Highland air, that, you 
tell me in your last, you have resolved to 
give a place to in your book. I have this 
moment finished the song, so you have it 
glowing from the mint. If it suit you, well! 
— If not, 'tis also well ! 

[Here fullows " Behold the Hour."^ 



NO. ccxci. 



MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Sept. 5th, 1 793. 

I BELIEVE it is generally allowed that 
the greatest modesty is the sure attendant of 
the greatest merit. While you are sending 
me verses that even Shakspeare might be 
proud to own, you speak of them as if they 
were ordinary productions ! Your heroic 
ode is to me the noblest composition of the 
kind in the Scottish language. I happened 
to dine yesterday with a party of your 
friends, to whom I read it. They were all 
charmed with it ; entreated me to find out a 
suitable air for it, and reprobated the idea of 
giving it a tune so totally devoid of interest 
or grandeur as "Hey tuttie taitie." Assuredly 
your partiality for this tune must arise from 
the ideas associated in your mind by the 
tradition concerning it, for I never heard any 
person, — and I have conversed aiain and 
again with the greatestenthusiasts forScottish 
airs — I say, I never heard any one speak of 
it as wortliy of notice. 

I have been running over the whole hun- 
dred airs, of which I lately sent you the list ; 
and I think " Lewie Gordon" is most happily 
adapted to your ode ; at least, with a very 
slight variation of the fourth line, which I 
shall presently submit to you. Tlierc is in 
" Lewie Gordon" more of the grand than the 
plaintive, particularly when it is stmg with a 
degree of spirit, which your words would 
oblige the singer to'give it. I would have 
no scruple about substituting your ode in 
the room of "Lewie Gordon," which has 
neither the interest, the grandeur, nor the 
poetry, that characterise your verses. Now, 
the variation I have to suggest upon the last 
line of each verse, the only line too short for 
the air is as follows ; — 

Verse 1st, Or to glorious victory. 

2iid, Chains — chains and slavery. 
3rd, Let him, let him turn and llee. 



410 



CORRESrONDENCE OF BURNS. 



4th, I^t him hrnvely follow me. 

5th, But they shall, they shall be free. 

6ih, Let us, Id us do or die ! 

If you connect each line with its own 
Terse, 1 do not think you will find that 
either the sentiment or the expression loses 
any of its energy. The only line which I 
dislike in the whole song is, " Welcome to 
your gory bed." Would not another word 
be preferable to " welcome ? " In your next 
I will expect to be informed whether you 
agree to what I have proposed. The little 
alterations I submit with the greatest defer- 
ence. 

The beauty of the verses you have made 
for " Uran-gaoil" will ensure celebrity to the 
air. 



NO. CCXCII. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Sept. 1793. 

I ii.WE received your list, my dear Sir, 
and here go my observations on it. (173) 

" Down the Burn Davie." I have this 
moment tried an alteration, leaving out the 
last half of the third stanza, and the first 
half of the last stanza, thus : — 
As down the burn they took their way. 

And thro' the flowery dale ; 
His cheek to hers he aft did lay. 

And love was aye the tale. 

With " JIary, when shall we return. 

Sic pleasure to renew ? " 
Guoth Mary, "Love I like the burn. 

And aye shall follow you." (174) 

" Thro' the wood laddie" — I ara decidedly 
of opinion, that, both in this, and " There'll 
sever be peace till Jamie comes hame," the 
second or high part of the tune being a 
repetition of the first part an octave higiier, 
is only for instrumental music, and would be 
much better omitted in singing. 

" Cowden-knowes." Remember in your 
index that the song iu pure English to this 
tuue, beginning. 

When Slimmer comes, the swains on Tweed, 

is the production of Crawford. Robert was 
his Christian name. 

"Laddie, lie near me," must lie by me for 
some time. 1 do not know the air; and 
until I am complete master of a tune, iu my 
own singing (such as it is), I can never com- 
pose for it. My way is : I consider the 
poetic seutimeut corresjiondent to my idea 



of the musical expression ; then chouse mj 
theme ; begin one stanza : when that is 
composed, which is generally the most diffi- 
cult part of the business, I walk out, sit 
down now and then, look out for objects in 
nature around me that are in unison and 
harmony with the cogitations of my fancy, 
and workings of my bosom; humming every 
now and then the air with the verses I have 
framed. When I feel my muse beginning to 
jade, I retire to the solitary fireside of my 
study, and there commit my effusions to 
paper ; swinging at intervals on the hind- 
legs of my elljow chair, by way of calling 
forth my own critical strictures as my pen 
goes on. Seriously, this, at home, is almost 
invariably my way. 

WHiat cursed egotism ! 

" Gill Morice" 1 am for leaving out. It is 
a plaguy length ; the air itself is never 
sung ; and its place can well be supplied by 
one or two songs for fine airs that are not 
in your list — for instance, "Craigieburn 
wood" and " Roy's wife." The first, beside 
its intrinsic merit, has novelty; and the last 
has high merit, as well as great celebrity. I 
have the original words of a song for the 
last air, in the handwriting of the lady who 
composed it ; and they are superior to any 
edition of the song which the public has yet 
seen. 

"Highland-laddie." The old set will 
please a mere Scotch ear best ; and the new 
an Italianised one. There is a third, and 
what Oswald calls the old " llighland- 
laddie," which pleases me more than eillier 
of them. It is sometimes called "Uiiigliii 
Johnnie ;" it being the air of an old liunio- 
rous tawdry song of that name. You will 
find it in the Museum, " I hae been at 
Crookieden," &c. I would advise you, m 
this musical quandary, to oft'er up your 
prayers to the muses for inspiring direction ; 
and, in the meantime, waiting for this direc- 
tion, bestoiv a libation to Bacchus ; and 
there is not a doubt but you will hit on a 
judicious choice. Probatum est. 

"Auld Sir Simon" 1 must beg you to 
leave out, and put in its place " The 
Quaker's wife." 

" Blythe hae I been o'er the hill," is one 
of the finest songs ever I made in my life, 
and, besides, is composed on a young lady, 
positively the most beautiful, lovely woman 
in the world. As I purpose giving you the 
names and designations of all my heroines, 
to appear in some future edition of your 
^^•ork, perhaps half a century hence, you 
must certainly include " The bonniest lass in 
a' the warld," in your c.illectiou. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSOX. 



4U 



" Dainty Davie" I have heard sung nine- 
teen thousand nnie hundred and ninety-nine 
times, and always with the chorus to the 
iow part of the tune ; and uotliing lias 
surprised me so much as your opinion on 
this subject. If it will not suit as I pro- 
posed, we will lay two of the stanzas 
together, and then make the chorus follow. 

"Fee him, father :" 1 enclose you Frazer's 
set of tins tune v, hen he plays it slow : in 
fact, he makes it the language of despair. 
I sliall here give you two stanzas, in that 
style, merely to try if it will be any im- 
provement. (175) AV^ere it possible, in sing- 
ing, to give it half the pathos which Frazer 
gives it in playing, it would make an ad- 
mirably pathetic song. I do not give these 
verses for any merit they have. I composed 
them at the time in which " Patie Allan's 
mither died— that was, about the back o' 
midnight ; " and by the lee-side of a bowl 
of punch, which had overset every mortal in 
company excejjt the hautbois and the muse. 

[//ere follows " Thou liasl left me ever."] 

" Jockie and Jenny" I would discard, and 
in its place would put "There's nae luck 
a'jout the house," which has a very pleasant 
air, and which is positively the finest love- 
ballad in that style iii the Scottish, or 
perhaps in any other language. " When 
she cauie ben she bobbit," as an air, is more 
beautiful than either, and in the andante 
way would unite with a charming senti- 
mental ballad. 

"Saw ye my father?" is one of my 
greatest favourites. The evening before 
last, I wandered out, and began a tender 
song, in what I think is its native style. I 
must premise, that the old way, and the way 
to give most efl'ect, is to have no starting- 
note, as the fiddlers call it, but to burst at 
once into the pathos. Every country girl 
sings " Saw ye my father?" &c. 

My song is but just begun ; and I should 
like, before I proceed, to know your opinion 
of it. I have sprinkled it with the Scottish 
dialect, but it may be easily turned into 
correct English. (170) 

" Todliu haine." Urbani mentioned an 
idea of his, which has long been mine, that 
this air is highly susceptible of pathos : 
accordingly, you will soon hear him at your 
concert try it to a song of mine in the 
Museum, "Ye banks and braes o' boiinie 
Doon." One song more, and I have done ; 
"Auld lang syne." The air is but mediocre ; 
but the following song, the old song of the 
olden times, and which has never been in 
print, nor even in manuscript, until I took it 

36 



down from an old man's singing, is enough 
to recommend any air. 

\_Here the poet (jives "Auld lang syne."'] 

Now, I suppose, I have tired your patience 
fairly. You must, after all is over, have a 
number of ballads, properly so called. " Gill 
jMorice," "Tranent Muir," " Macphersou'a 
farewell," "Battle of Sheriff-muir," or, "We 
ran, and they ran" (I know the author of 
this charming ballad, and his history), 
" Hardiknute," " Barbara Allan" (I can 
furnish a finer set of this tune than any 
that has yet appeared) ; and besides, do you 
know that I really have the old tune to 
which " The cherry and the slae" was sung, 
and which is mentioned as a well-known air 
in "Scotland's Complaint," a book published 
before poor JIary's days? It was then 
called, " The banks o' Helicon ; " an old 
poem which Pinkerton has brought to light. 
You will see all this in Tytler's History of 
Scottish Music. The tune, to a learned ear, 
may have no great merit ; but it is a great 
curiosity. I have a good many original 
things of this kind. 



SO. CCXCIII. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

S-ptember, 1793. 

I AM happy, ray dear Sir, that my ode 
pleases you so much. Your idea, " honour's 
bed," is, though a beautiful, a hackneyed 
idea ; so, if you please, we will let the line 
stand as it is. I have altered the son:i aa 
follows : — 



BANNOCKBURN. 

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY, 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce lias aften led. 
Welcome to your gory bed 1 
Or to glorious victory I 

Now's the day, and now's the hour; 
See the front o' battle lour ; 
See approach proud Edward's power! 
Edward 1 chains and slavery. 

Wha will be a traitor knave? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave? 

Traitor! coward! turn, and flee! 



412 



CORRESPONDF.NCE OF BURNS, 



V\'ha for Scotland's kins^ and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Frpcwan stand, or freeman fa', 
Sodger ! hero ! on wi' me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chams ! 
We will drain our dearest veins. 
But they shall be — shall be freel 

r^y the proud usurpers low ' 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Forward 1 let us do or die 1 

N.B. I have borrowed the last stanza 
from the common stall edition of Wallace — 

A false usurper sinks in every foe. 
And liberty returns with every blow. 

A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday 
you had enough of my correspondence. The 
post goes, and my head aches miserably. 
One comfort I I suffer so much, just now, in 
vnis world, for last night's joviality, that I 
shall escape scot-free for it in the world to 
come. Amen. 



NO. CCXCIV. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

September \2th, 1793. 

A THOUSAND thanks to you, my dear 
Sir, for your observations on the list of my 
songs. I am happy to find your ideas so 
much in unison with ray own, respecting the 
generality of the airs, as well as the verses. 
About some of them we differ, but there is 
no disputing about hobby-horses. 1 shall 
not fail to profit by the remai'ks you make, 
and to re-consider the whole with attention. 

" Dainty Davie" must be sung, two stanzas 
together, and then the chorus : 'tis the 
proper way. I agree with you, that there 
may be something of pathos, or tenderness 
at least, in the air of "Fee him, father," 
when performed with feeling ; but a tender 
cast may be given almost to any lively air, if 
you sing it very slowly, expressively, and 
wit'., serious words. I am, however, clearly 
and invariably for retaining the cheerful 
tunes joined to their own humorous verses, 
wherever the verses are passable. But the 
sweet song for "Fee hira, father," which 
you began about the back of midnight, I 
will publish as an additional one, Mr. 
James Balfour, the king of good fellows. 



and the best singer of the lively Scottish 
ballads that ever existed, has charmed tiiou- 
sands of companies with " Fee him, father," 
and witli "Todlin hame" also, to the old 
words, which never should be disunited from 
either of these airs. Some bacchanals I 
would wish to discard. " Fy I let's a' to the 
bridal," for instance, is so coarse and vulgar, 
that I tlnnk it fit only to be sung in a com- 
pany of drunken colliers ; and "Saw ye my 
father?" appears to me both indelicate and 
silly. 

One word more with regard to your heroic 
ode. I think, with great deference to the 
poet, that a prudent general would avoid 
saying any thing to his soldiers which might 
tend to make death more frightful than it is. 
" Gory" presents a disagreeable image to the 
mind; and to tell them "Welcome to your 
gory bed," seems rather a discouraging 
address, notwithstanding the blternative 
which follows. 1 have shown the song to 
three friends of excellent taste, and each of 
them objected to this line, which emboldens 
me to use the freedom of bringing it again 
under your notice. 1 would suggest. 

Now prepare for honour's bed. 
Or for glorious victory ! 



NO. ccxcv. 
BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

" Who shall decide when doctors disa- 
gree?" ]\Iy ode pleases me so much that I 
cannot alter it. Your proposed alterations 
would, in my opinion, make it tame. I ara 
exceedingly obliged to you for putting me 
on reconsidering it, as, 1 think, I have much 
improved it. Instead of "sodger! hero!" 
I will have it " Caledonian ! on wi' me ! " 

1 have scrutinized it over and over ; and 
to the world, some way or other, it shall go 
as it is. At the same time, it will not in the 
least hurt me should you leave it out alto- 
gether, and adhere to your first intention of 
adopting Logan's verses. (177) 

I have finished my song to " Saw ye my 
father? "and in English, as you will see. 
That there is a syllable too much for the e.x- 
pression of the air, is true ; but, allow me to 
say, that the mere dividing of a dotted 
crotchet into a crotchet and a quaver, is not 
a great matter : however, in that I have no 
pretensions to cope in judgment with you Of 



BURNS TO MR, THOMSON 



413 



the poetry I speak with confiJence ; but the 
music is a business where I hint my ideas 
with the utmost diftidence. 

Tlie old verses liave merit, though un- 
equal, and are popular : my advice is to set 
the air to the old words, and let mine follow 
as English verses. Here they are : — 
[Here follows the song " Where are the joys.""] 

Adieu, my dear Sir '. the post goes, so I 
shall defer some other remarks until mure 
lei.-'ure. 



NO. ccxcvi. 



BURNS TO THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

I n.WE been turning over some volumes 
of songs, to find verses whose measures 
would suit the airs for which you have 
allotted me to find English songs. 

For "Muirland 'Willie," you have, in 
Ramsay's Tea-table an excellent song, be- 
ginning, " Ah, why those tears in Nelly's 
eyes?" As for "The Collier's dochtcr," 
take the following old bacchanal : — 

[Here follows " Deluded swain, the 
pleasure."'] 

The faulty line in Logan-Water, I mend 
thus : — 

" How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
'] he widow's tears, the orphan's cry ?" 

The song otherwise will pass. As to 
"M'Oregoria Rua-Ruth " you will see a 
song of mine to it, with a set of the air 
superior to yours, in the Museum, vol. ii. 
p. 181. The song begins, 

" Raving winds around her blowing." 

Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are 
downright Irish. If they were like the 
"Banks of Banna," for instance, though 
really Irish, yet in the Scottish taste, you 
might adopt them. Since you are so fond of 
Irish music, what say you to twenty-five of 
them in an additional number? We could 
easily find this quaniity of charming airs : I 
will take care that you shall not want songs; 
and I assure yon that you would find it the 
most saleable of the whole. If you do not 
approve of " Roy's wife," for the music's 
sake, we shall not insert it. " Dell tak the 
wars " is a charm'ug song ; so is, " Saw ye 
my Peggy ? " " There's nae luck about the 
house " well deserves a place. I cannot say 
that " O'er the hills and far awa " strikes me 
B8 equal as your selectiou. " This ia no my 



ain house" is a great favourite air of mine ; 
and if you will send me your set of it, I will 
task my muse to her highest effort. What 
is your opinion of " I hae laid a herrin' iu 
saut ? " I like it much. Your Jacobite airs 
are jiretty, and there are many others of the 
same kind pretty; but yon have not room 
for them. You cannot, I think, insert " Ey ! 
let's a' to the bridal," to any other words 
than its own. 

^Vhat pleases me, as simple and naif dis- 
gusts you as ludicrous and low. For this 
reason, " Ey ! gie me my coggie. Sirs," " Fy ! 
let's a' to the bridal," with several others of 
that cast, are to me highly pleasing ; while, 
"Saw ye my father, or saw ye my mother? " 
delights me with its descriptive simple 
pathos. Thus my song, " Ken ye what Jleg 
o' the mill has gotten?" pleases myself so 
much, that I cannot try my hand at another 
song to the air, so I shall not attempt it. I 
know you will laugh at all this; but "ilka 
man wears his belt his ain gait." 



NO. CCXCVII. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

October 1793. 

Your last letter, my dear Thomson, was 
indeed ladni with heavy news. Alas, poor 
Erskine ! (178) The recollection that he 
was a coadjutor in your publication, has, till 
now, scared me from writing to you, or 
turning my thoughts on composing for you. 

I am pleased that you are reconciled to 
the air of the " Quaker's wife ; " though, by 
the bye, an old Highland gentleman, and a 
deep antiquarian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, 
and known by the name of " Leiger m' 
ehoss." The following verses, I hope, will 
please you, as an English song to the air. 

[Here follows " Thine am I, my faithful 
fair."] 

Your objection to the English song I pro- 
posed for " John Anderson, my jo," is cer- 
tainly just. The following is by an old 
acquaintance of mine, and 1 think has merit. 
The song was never in print, which I think 
is so much iu your favour. The more origi- 
nal good poetry your collection contains, it 
certainly has so much the more merit. 

SONG.— By G.WIN Turnbull. (179) 
" Oh condescend, dear charming maid. 

My wretched state to view ; 
A tender swain to love betray'd. 

And sad despair, by you. 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



414 

While l-.ere, all melancholy. 

My passion I deplore. 
Yet, nrg'd by stern resistless fate, 

1 love thee more and more. 

I heard of love, and with disdain 

The urchin's power denied ; 
I lauffh'd at every lover's pain, 

And niock'd them when they sigh d. 

But how my state is alter'd ! 

Those happy days are o'er ; 
For all thy unrelenting? hate, 

I love thee more and more. 

Oh, yield, illustrious beauty, yield ! 

No lonj^er let ine mourn ; 
And though victorious in the field. 

Thy captive do not scorn. 

Let generous pity warm thee. 

My wonted peace restore ; 
And, grateful, I shall bless thee still. 

And love thee more and more." 

The following address of Turnbull's to the 
Nightingale, will suit as an English song to 
the air, " There was a lass, and she was fair." 
By the bye, TurnbuU has a great many songs 
in ]MS., which I can command, if you like 
his manner. Possibly, as he is an okl friend 
of mnie, I may be prejudiced in his favour : 
but 1 like some of his pieces very much. 

THE NIGHTINGALE. 

" Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove. 
That ever tried the plaintive strain. 

Awake thy tender tale of love. 
And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 

For though the muses deign to aid. 
And teach him smoothly to complain ; 

Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid. 
Is deaf to her forsaken swain. 

All day, with fashion's gandy sons. 
In sport she wanders o'er the plain : 

Their tales approves, and still she shuns 
The notes of her forsaken swain. 

When evening shades obscure the sky. 
And bring "the solemn hours again, 

Begin, sweet bird, thy melody. 

And soothe a poor forsaken swain." 

I shall just transcribe another of Turn- 
bulFs, which would go charmingly to "Lewie 
Gordon." 

LAURA. 

"liCt me wander where I will, 
ijy shady wood, or winding rillj 



Where the sweetest ]\Iay-born flo\»eia 
Paint the meadows, deck the bowerri ; 
Where the linnet's early song 
Echoes sweet the woods araouj : 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy stilL 
If at rosy dawn I choose 
To indulge the smiling muse; 
If I court some cool retreat. 
To avoid the noontide heat ; 
If beneath the moon's pale ray. 
Thro' unfrequented wilds I stray; 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 

When at night the drowsy god 
Waves his sleep-compelling rod. 
And to fancy's wakeful eyes 
Bids celestial visions rise ; 
While with boundless joy I rove 
Thro' the fairy land of love : 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still." 

The rest of your letter I ^hall answer OU 
some other opportunity. 



NO. CCXCVIII. 



MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

November Itli, 1793. 

My Good Sir — After so long a silence, 
it gave me peculiar pleasure to recognise 
your well known-hand, for I had begun to 
"be apprehensive that all was not well with 
you. I am happy to find, however, that 
your silence did not proceed from that 
cause, and that you have got among the 
ballads once more. 

I have to thank you for your English 
song to " Leiger m' choss," which I think 
extremely good, although the colouring is 
warm. Your friend, Mr. Turnbull's songs 
have doubtless considerable merit ; and as 
you have the coniraaiul of his manuscripts, 
I hope you may find out some that will 
answer as English songs, to the airs yet 
unprovided. (180) 



NO. CCXCIX. 



TO JOHN M'MURDO, Esa 

Dumfries, December, 1793. 

Sir — It is said that we take the greatest 
liberties with our greatest friends, and I 



TO J[RS. RIDDEL. 



Uo 



pay myself a very his,'h compliment in the 
manner iu which I am going to apply the 
remark. I liave owed you money longer 
than ever I owed it to any man. Here is 
Ker's account, and here are six guineas ; 
and now, I don't owe a shilling to niari — or 

woman either. But for these d dirty, 

dog-ear'd little pages (181), I had done my- 
self the honour to have waited on you long 
ago. Independent of the ohligations your 
hospitality has laid me under, the con- 
ciousness of your superiority iu the rank of 
man and gentleman, of itself was fully as 
much as I could ever make head against ; 
but to owe you money too, was more than I 
could face. 

1 tiiink I once mentioned something of a 
collection of Scots songs I have for some 
years heen nuiking — I send you a perusal of 
what I have got together. I could not 
conveniently spare them above five or six 
days, and live or six glances of them will 
probably more than suffice you. A very 
few of them are iny own. A\'hen you are 
tired of them, please leave them with Mr. 
Clint, of the King's Arras. There is not 
another copy of the collection in the world; 
and 1 should be sorry that any unfortunate 
negligence should deprive me of what has 
cost me a good deal of pains. R. B. 



TO JOHN M'MURDO, Esq., 

DRUMLANRIG. 

Dumfries, 1793. 

Will Mr. IM'lMurdo do me the favour to 
accept of these volumes (182) ; a trifling but 
sincere mark of the very high respect 1 bear 
for his worth as a man, his manners as a 
gentleman, and his kindness as a friend. 
However inferior now, or afterwards, I may 
rank as a poet, one honest virtue to which 
few poets (an pretend, I trust I shall ever 
claim as mine — to no man, whatever his 
station in life, or his power to serve me, 
have 1 ever paid a compliment at the 
expense of TiiuTii. The Author. 



' pertinent in my anxious wish to be hojionred 

W'ith your acquaintance. You will forgiw it 

— it was the impulse of lieart-fL'lt respect. 

I "He is the father of the Scottish county 

j reform, and is a man who does luiiionr to 

the business, at the same time thui the 

I business does honour to him," .s;iul my 

I worthy friend Glenriddel to somelindy by 

me who was talking of your coming to this 

country with your corps. "Then," I said, 

" 1 have a woman's longing to tiiKe him by 

the hand, and say to him, ' Sir, I honour you 

as a man to whom the interests of humanity 

are dear, and as a patriot to whom the 

rights of your country are sacred.' " 

In times like these. Sir, when our com- 
moners are barely able, by the glimmering 
of their own twilight understandings, to 
scrawl a frank, and when lords are what 
gentlemen would be ashamed to be, to 
whom shall a sinking country call for 
help ? To the independent country gentlo- 
maii. To him who has too deep a stake in 
his country not to be in earnest for her 
welfare ; and who, iu the honest pride of 
man, can view, with equal contempt, the 
insolence of office, and the allurements of 
corruption. 

1 mentioned to you a Scots ode or 
song I had lately composed (181), and 
wliicii, I think, has some merit. Allow me 
to enclose it. When 1 fall in with yon at 
the theatre, I shall be glad to have your 
opinion of it. Accept of it. Sir, as a very 
humble, but most sincere tribute of respect 
for a man who, dear as he prizes poetic 
fame, yet holds dearer an independent 
mind, I have the honour to be, 

K B. 



NO. CCCt. 

TO CAPTAIN 



— . (183) 

Dumfries, December 5lh, 1793. 

Sir — Heated as I was with wine yester- 
night, I was perhaps rather seemingly im- 



NO. CCCII. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL, 

WHO WAS ABOUT TO BKSPEAK A PLAT ONR 
EVENING AT TUK DUMFRIES THKATRE. 

I AM thinking to send my " Address " to 
some periodical publication, but it nas not 
got your sanction, so pray look over it. 

As to the Tuesday's play, let me beg of 
you, my dear IMadam, to give us "The 
Wonder, a Woman keeps a Secret ! " to 
which please add, "The Spoilt Child" — you 
will highly oblige me by so doing. 

All, what an enviable creature you are! 
There now, this cursed, gloomy, bine-devil 
day, you are going to a party of choice 
spirits — 



416 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



To play the shapes 
Of frolic fancy, and incessant form 
Those rapid pictures, assembled train 
Of fleet ideas, never join'd before. 
Where hvely loit excites to gay surprise: 
Or folly-painting humour, grave himself. 
Calls laughter fortli, deep shaking every 
nerve. 

But, as you rejoice with them that do 
rejoice, do also remember to weep with them 
that weep, and pity your melancholy friend, 
R. B."(185) 



NO. CCCIII. 

TO A LADY, 



IN FAVOUR OF A PLAYERS BENEflT. 

Dumfries, 1794. 

Madam — You were so very good as to 
promise me to honour my friend with your 
presence on his benefit night. That night 
is fixed for Friday next : the play a most 
interesting one — "The Way to Keep Him." 
I have the pleasure to know Mr. G. well. 
His merit as an actor is generally acknow- 
ledged. He has genius and worth which 
would do honour to patronage : he is a 
poor and modest man : — claims which, from 
their very silence have the more forcible 
power on the generous heart. Alas, for 
pity ! that, from the indolence of those who 
have the good things of this life in their 
gift, too often does brazen-fronted im- 
portunity snatch that boon, the rightful due 
of retiring, humble want ! Of all the 
qualities we assign to the author and 
director of Nature, by far the most enviable 
is, to be able " to wipe away all tears from 
all eyes." Oh what insignificant, sordid 
wretches are they, however chance may 
have loaded them with wealth, who go to 
their graves, to their magnificent mauso- 
leums, with hardly the consciousness of 
having made one poor honest heart happy. 

But I crave your pardon. Madam ; I 
came to beg not to preach. R. B. 



NO. CCCIV. 

TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

Dumfries, January \2th, 1794. 

My Lord — Will your lordship allow me 
to present you with the enclosed little com- 



position of mine (186), as a small tribute of 
gratitude for the acquaintance with which 
you have been pleased to honour me. Inde- 
pendent of my enthusiasm as a Scotsman, I 
have rarely met with any thing in history 
which interests my feelings as a man, equal 
with the story of Bannockburn. On the one 
hand, a cruel but able usurper, leading on 
the finest army in Europe to extinguish the 
last spark of freedom among a greatly-daring 
and greatly-injured people ; on the other 
hand, the desperate relics of a gallant nation, 
devoting themselves to rescue their bleeding 
country, or perish with her. 

Liberty ! thou art a prize truly, and indeed 
invaluable, for never canst thou be too dearly 
bought 1 

If my little ode has the honour of your 
lordship's approbation, it will gratify my 
highest ambition. I have the honour to be. 
&C. R, B. 



' NO. CCCV. 

TO CAPTAIN MILLER» 

dalswinton. 

Dear Sir — Tlie following ode (187) is on 
a subject which I know you by no means 
regard with indifference. Oh, Liberty, 

Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay, 
Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to 
the day. 

It does me so much good to meet with a 
man whose honest bosom glows with the 
generous enthusiasm, the heroic daring of 
liberty, that I could not forbear sending you 
a composition of my own on the subject, 
which I really think is in my best manner. 
I have the honour to be, dear Sir, &c. 

R. B. 



NO. CCCVI. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL 

Dear Madam — I meant to have called 
on you yesternight ; but as I edged up to 
your box-door, the first object which greeted 
my view was one of those lobster-coated 
puppies, sitting like another dragon, guarding 
the Hesperian fruit. On the co;iditions and 
capitulations you so obligingly offer, 1 shall 
certainly make my weather-beaten, rustic 



TO MRS. RIDDEL. 



417 



phiz a part of your box-furniture on Tuesday, 
when we may arrange the business of the 
visit. 

Among the profusion of idle compliments, 
•which insidious craft, or unmeaning folly, 
incessantly offer at your shrine — a shrine, 
how far exalted above such adoration — per- 
mit me, were it but for rarity's sake, to pay 
you the honest tribute of a warm heart and 
an independent mind, — and to assure you, 
that I am, thou most amiable, and most 
accomplished of thy sex, with the most 
respectful esteem, and fervent regard, thine, 
&C. K. B. 



NO. CCCVIl. 

TO THE SAME. 

I WILL wait on you, my ever-valued 
friend, but whether in the morning I am not 
sure. Sunday closes a period of our curst 
revenue business, and may probably keep 
me employed with my pen until noon. Fine 
employment for a poet's pen ! There is a 
species of the human genus that I call the 
qin-horse class: what enviable dogs they are! 
Round, and round, and round they go. 
Mundell's ox, that drives his cotton mill, is 
their exact prototype — without an irlea or 
wish beyond their circle — fat, sleek, stupid, 
patient, quiet and contented ; while here I 

sit, altogether Novemberish, a d melange 

of fretfulness and melancholy ; not enough 
of the one to rouse me to passion, nor of the 
other to repose me in torpor ; my soul 
flouncing and fluttering round lier tenement, 
Uke a wild finch, caught amid the horrors of 
winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, 
I am persuaded, that it was of me the Hebrew 
sage prophesied, when he foretold — " And, 
behold, on whatsoever this man doth set ins 
heart, it shall not prosper !" If my resent- 
ment is awaked, it is sure to be where it dare 
not squeak ; and if — * * * 

Pray that wisdom and bliss be more fre- 
quent visitors of R. B. 



NO. cccvm, 
TO THE SAME. 



spoilt it a good deal. It shall be a lesson to 
me how I lend him anything again. 

I have sent you " Werter," truly happy to 
have any, the smallest, opportunity of obli- 
gingyou. 

'Tis true, Madam, I saw you once since I 
was at Woodlee ; and that once froze the 
very life-blood of my heart. Your reception 
of me was such, that a wretch meeting the 
eye of his judge, about to pronounce sentence 
of death on him, could only have envied my 
feelings and situation. But I hate the 
theme, and never more shall write or speak 
on it. 

One thing I shall proudly say, that I can 
pay Mrs. R. a higher tribute of esteem, and 
appreciate her amiable worth more truly, 
than any man whom I have seen approach 
her. R. B. 



I HAVE this moment got the sonj from 
Syme, and I am sorry to see that he has 



NO. CCCIX. 

TO THE SAME 



I HAVK often told you, my dear friend, 
that you had a spice of caprice in your com- 
position, and you have as often disavowed it; 
even, perhaps, while your opinions were, at 
the moment, irrefragably proving it. Could 
aivjtlwuj estrange me from a friend such as 
you? No! To-morrow I shall have the 
honour of waiting on you. 

Farewell, thou first of friends, and most 
accomplished of women, even with all thy 
little caprices I R. B. 



NO. CCCX. 

TO THE SAME 

Madam — I return your common-place 
book. 1 have perused it with much pleasure, 
and would have continued my criticisms, but 
as it seems the critic has forfeited your 
esteem, his strictures must lose their value. 

If it is true that "offences come only from 
the heart :" before you I am guiltless. To 
admire, esteem and prize you, as the most 
accomplished of women, and the first of 
friends — if these are crimes, I am the most 
offending thing alive. 

In a face where I used to meet the kind 
complacency of friendly confidence, now to 



418 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



find cold neglect, an_ contemptuous sconi — 
is a wrench that my heart can ill bear. 
It is, however, some kind of miserable good 
luck, that while de haul-en-has rigour may 
depress an unoffending wretch to the ground, 
it has a tendency to rouse a stubborn some- 
thing in his bosom, which, though it cannot 
heal the wounds of his soul, is at least an 
opiate to blunt their poignancy. 

With the profoundest respect for your 
abilities; the most sincere esteem, and ardent 
regard for your gentle heart and amiable 
manners ; and the most fervent wish and 
prayer for your welfare, peace, and bliss — I 
have the honour to be. Madam, your most 
devoted humble servant, il. B 



TO JOHN SYME, Esa. (188) 

You know that among other high dignities, 
you have the honour to be my supreme court 
of critical judicature, from which there is no 
appeal. I enclose you a song, which I com- 
posed since I saw you, and I am going to 
give you the history of it. (189) Do you 
know, that among much that I admire in the 
characters and manners of those great folks 
whom I have now the honour to call my 
acquaintances, the Oswald family, — there is 
nothing charms me more than Mr. Oswald's 
unconcealable attachment to that incompa- 
rable woman. Did you ever, my dear Syme, 
meet with a man who owed more to the 
Divine Giver of all good things than Mr. O? 
A fine fortune; a pleasing exterior; self- 
evident amiable dispositions,and an ingenuous, 
upright mind, — and that informed, too, much 
beyond the usual run of young fellows of his 
rank and fortune : and to all this, such a 
woman ! — but of her I shall say nothing at 
all, in despair of saying anything adequate : 
in my song, I have endeavoured to do justice 
to what would be his feelings, on seeing, in 
the scene I have drawn, the habitation of his 
Lucy. As I am a good deal pleased with 
my performance, I, in my first fervour, 
thought of sending it to Mrs. Oswald, but, 
on second thoughts, perhaps what I offer as 
the honest incense of genuine respect, might, 
from the well-known character of poverty 
and poetry, be construed into some modifi- 
cation or other of that servility which my 
Boul abhors. K. B. 



NO. cccxn. 
TO MISS — 



Dumfries, 1794 

Madam — Nothmg short of a kind of 
absolute necessity could have made me trouble 
you with this letter. Except my ardent and 
just esteem for your sense, taste and worth, 
every sentiment arising in my breast, as I 
put pen to paper to you, is painful. The 
scenes I have passed with the friend of my 
soul, and his amiable connexions ! the wrench 
at my heart to think that he is gone, for 
ever gone from me, never more to meet 
in the wanderings of a weary world ! and 
the cutting reflection of all, that I had most 
unfortunately, though most undeservedly, 
lost the confidence of that soul of worth, ere 
it took its flight 1 

These Madam, are sensations of no ordi- 
nary anguish However, you also may be 
olfended with some imputed improprieties of 
mine ; sensibility you know I possess, and 
sincerity none will deny me. 

To oppose those prejudices which have 
been raised against me, is not the business 
of this letter. Indeed, it is a warfare I know 
not how to wage. The powers of positive 
vice I can in some degree calculate, and 
against direct malevolence I can be on my 
guard : but who can estimate the fatuity of 
giddy ciprice, or wird off the unthinking 
mischief of prec'pita'e folly ? 

I have a favour to request of you. Madam ; 

and of your sister, Mrs. , through your 

means. You know that, at the wish of my 
late friend, I made a collection of all my 
trifles iu verse which I had ever written. 
They are many of them local, some of thera 
pvif-rile and silly, and all of them unfit for 
the public eye. As I have some little fame 
at stake — a fame that I trust may live when 
the hate of those who "watch for my halting," 
and the contumelious sne2r of those whom 
accident has made my superiors, will, with 
themselves, be gone to the regions of oblivion 
— I am uneasy now for the fate of those 
manuscripts. Will Mrs. have the good- 
ness to destroy them, or return them to me? 
As a pledge of friendship they were bestowed; 
and that circumstance, indeed, was all their 
merit. IMost unhappily for me, that merit 
they no longer possess ; and I hope that 

Mrs. 's goodness, which I well know, 

and ever will revere, will not refuse this 
favour to a man whom she once held in some 
degree of estimation. 

With the sincerest esteem, I have the 
honour to be. Madam, &c. II. B. 



ME. THOMSON TO BURNS. 



419 



NO. CCCXIII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

February 25th, 1794. 

Canst thou minister to a mind diseased? 
Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul 
tost on a sea of troubles, without one friendly 
star to guide her course, and dreading that 
the next surge may overwhelm her? Canst 
thou give to a frame, tremblingly alive to the 
tortures of suspense, the stability and hardi- 
hood of the rock that braves the blast ! If 
tliou canst not do the least of these, why 
wouldst thou disturb me in my miseries, 
with thy inquiries after me ? 

For these two months I have not been 
able to lift a pen. My constitution and 
frame were ab orUjine, blasted with a deep, 
incurable taint of hypochondria, which 
poisons my existence. Of late a number of 
domestic vexatious, and some pecuniary 
share in the ruin of these cursed times — 
losses which, though trifling, were yet what 
1 could ill bear — have so irritated me, that 
ray feelings at times could only be euvied by 
a reprobate spirit listening to the sentence 
that dooms it to perdition. 

Are you deep in the language of consola- 
tion ? I have exhausted in reflection every 
topic of comfort. A heart at ease would 
have been charmed with my sentiments and 
reasonings ; but as to myself, I was hke 
Judas Iscariot preaching the gospel : he 
might melt and mould the hearts of those 
around him, but his own kept its native 
mcorrigibilty. 

Still, there are two great pillars that bear 
us up, amid the wreck of misfortune and 
misery. The ONii is composed of the diflTerent 
modifications of a certain noble, stubborn 
something in man, known by the names 
«if courage, fortitude, magnanimity. The 
OTHER is made up of those feelings and sen- 
timents, which, however the sceptic may 
deny them, or the enthusiast disfigure them, 
are yet, I am convinced, original and compo- 
nent parts of the human soul ; those senses 
of the mind — if I may be allowed the expres- 
sion—which connect us with, and link us to, 
those awful obscure realities — an all-power- 
ful, and equally beneficent God, and a world 
to come, beyond death and the grave. The 
first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray 
of hope beams on the field: the last pours 
the balm of comfort into the wounds which 
time can never cure. 

I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, 
that you and I ever talked on the subject of 
religion at all. I know some who laugh at 



it, as the trick of the crafty few to lead the 
undiscerning many; or, at most, as an 
uncertain obscurity, which mankind can 
never know anything of, and with which 
they are fools if they give themselves much 
to do. Nor would I quarrel with a man for 
his irreligion, any more than I would for 
his want of a musical ear. I would regret 
that he was shut out from what, to me and 
to others, were such superlative sources of 
enjoyment. It is in this point of view, and 
for this reason, that I will deeply imbue the 
mind of every child of mine with religion. 
If my son should happen to be a man of 
feeling, sentiment and taste, I shall thus add 
largely to his enjoyments. Let me flatter 
myself, that this sweet little fellow, who is 
just now running about my desk, will be a 
man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart, — • 
and an imagination delighted with the 
painter, and rapt with the poet. Ij&t, me 
figure him wandering out in a sweet evening, 
to inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy the 
growing luxuriance of the spring ; himself 
the while in the blooming youth of life. He 
looks abroad on all nature, and through 
nature up to nature's God. His soul, by 
swift, delighting degrees, is rapt above this 
sublunary sphere, until he can be silent no 
longer, and bursts out into the glorious 
enthusiasm of Thomson : — 

" These, as they change. Almighty Father 

these 
Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
Is full of thee ;" — 

and so on, in all the spirit and ardour of 
that charming hymn. These are no ideal 
pleasures, they are real delights ; and 1 ask, 
what of the delights among the sons of men 
are superior, not to say equal, to them ? 
And, they have this precious, vast addition, 
that conscious virtue stamps them for her 
own, and lays hold on them to bring herself 
into the presence of a witnessing, judging, 
and approving God. R. B. 



WO. CCCXIV. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS, 

Edinburgh, April llth, 1794. 

My dear Sir — Owing to the distresj 
of our friend for the loss of his child, at the 
time of his receiving your admirable but 
melancholy letter, I had not an opportuaa., , 



37 



120 



COEKESPONDENCE OF BTJENS. 



till lately, of perusing' it. How sorry I 
am to find Burns saying, " Canst thou not 
minister to a mind diseased? " while he is 
delighting others from one end of the island 
to the other. Like the hypochondriac who 
went to consult a physician upon his case — 
"Go," says the doctor, " and see the famous 
Carlini, who keeps all Paris in good 
humour." "Alas ! Sir," replied the patient, 
" 1 am that unhappy Carlini ! " 

Your plan for our meeting together 
pleases me greatly, and I trust that by some 
means or other it will soon take place ; but 
your bacchanalian challenge almost frightens 
me, for I am a miserable weak drinker ! 

Allan is much gratified by your good 
opinion of his talents. He has just began a 
sketch from your " Cotter's Saturday Night," 
and, if it pleases himself in the design, 
he will probably etch or engrave it. In 
subjects of the pastoral and humorous 
kind, he is, perhaps, unrivalled by any artist 
living. He fails a little in giving beauty 
and grace to his females, and his colouring 
is sombre, otherwise his paintings and 
drawings would be in greater request. 

I like the music of the " Sutor's dochter," 
and will consider whether it shall be added 
to the last volume ; your verses to it are 
pretty ; but your humorous English song, 
to suit "Jo Janet," is inimitable. What 
think you of the air, "Within a mile of 
Edinburgh?" It has always struck me as 
a modern English imitation, but it is said to 
be Oswald's, and is so much liked, that I 
believe I must include it. The verses are 
little better than namby-pamby. Do you 
consider it worth a stanza or two ? 



NO. cccxv. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

May, 1794. 

My Dear Sir — I return you the plates, 
with which I am highly pleased; I would 
humbly propose, instead of the younker 
knitting stockings, to put a stock and horn 
into his hands. A friend of mine, who is 
positively the ablest judge on the subject I 
have ever met with, and though an unknown, 
is yet a superior artist with the burin, is 
quite charmed with Allan's manner. I got 
liim a peep of the " Gentle Shepherd ;" and 
he pronounces Allan a most original artist 
of great excellence. 



For my part, I look on Jlr. Allan's choos- 
ing my favourite poem for his subject, to be 
one of the highest compliments 1 have ever 
received. 

I am quite vexed at Pleyel's being ecoped 
up in France, as it will put an entire stop to 
our work. Now, and for six or seven months, 
I shall be quite in song, as you shall see by 
and bye. I got an air, pretty enough, com- 
posed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, 
which she calls "The banks of Cree." Cree 
is a beautiful romantic stream ; and as her 
ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have 
written the following song to it. 

[Here follows the song entitled " The Banka 
of Cree." 



NO. cccxvi. 
TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 
May, 179t. 

My Lord — Wlien you cast your eye on 
the name at the bottom of this letter, and 
on the title-page of the book I do myself 
the honour to send your lordship, a more 
pleasurable feeling than my vanity, tells me 
that it must be a name not entirely unknown 
to you. The generous patronage of your late 
illustrious brother found me in the lowest 
obscurity : he introduced my rustic muse to 
the partiality of my country ; and to him I 
owe all. My sense of his goodness, and the 
anguish of my soul at losing my truly noble 
protector and friend, I have endeavoured to 
express in a poem to his memory, which I 
have now published. This edition is just 
from the press ; and in my gratitude to the 
dead, and my respect for the living (fame 
belies you, my lord, if you possess not the 
same dignity of man, which was your noble 
brother's characteristic feature), I had des- 
cined a copy for the Earl of Glencairu. J 
learnt just now that you are in town : allow 
me to present it to you. 

I know, my lord, such is the vile, venal 
contagion which pervades the world of let- 
ters, that professions of respect from an 
author, particularly from a poet to a lord, 
are more than suspicious. I claim, by ray 
past conduct, and my feelings at this moment, 
an exception to the too just conclusion. 
Exalted as are the honours of your lordship's 
name, and unnoted as is the obscurity of 
mine; with the uprightness of an honest 
man, I come before your lordship, with an 
offering — however humble, 'tis all I have to 



TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON. 



421 



give, of my grateful respect ; and to beg of 
yovi, my lord, 'tis all I have to ask of you, 
that you will do me the honour to accept of 
it. I have the honour to be, B. B. 



NO. CCCXVII. 



TO DAVID MACCULLOCH, Esq. (190) 

Dumfries, June 2\sf, 1794. 

My Dear Sir — My long projected jour- 
ney throujih your country is at last fixed ; 
and ou Wednesday next, if you have nothing 
of more importance to do, take a saunter 
dowii to Gatehouse about two or three 
o'clock ; I shall be happy to take a draught 
of M'Kuue's best with you. Collector 
Syme will be at Cilens about that time, and 
%vill meet us about dish-of-tea hour. Syme 
goes also to Kerrougbtree, and let me remind 
you of your kind promise to accompany me 
there; I will need all the friends I can muster, 
for I am indeed ill at ease whenever I approach 
your honourables and right-honourables. 
Yours sincerely, R. B. 



NO. CCCXVIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Castle Doufjlas, June 25tli, 1794. 

Here, in a solitary inu, in a solitary village, 
am I set by myself, to amuse my brooding 
fancy as T may. Solitary confinement, you 
know, is Howard's favourite idea of reclaim- 
ing sinners ; so let me consider by what 
fatality it happens that I have so long been 
exceeding sinful as to neglect the correspond- 
ence of the most valued friend I have on 
earth. To tell you that 1 have been in poor 
health will not be excuse enough, though it 
is true. I am afraid that I am about to 
eufter for the follies of my youth. I\Iy 
medical friends threaten me with a flying 
gout ; but I trust they are mistaken. 

I am just going to trouble your critical 
patience with the first sketch of a stanza I 
have been framing as I passed along the road. 
The subject 13 liberty : you know, my hon- 
oured friend, how dear the theme is to me. 
I design it as an irregular ode for General 
Washington's birth-day. After having men- 
tioned liie degeneracy of other kingdoms, I 
conge to Scotland thus : 



Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths amonj, 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred 
song. 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled? 
Imniiiigled with the mighty dead, 

Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace 
lies! 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death. 

Ye babbHng winds in silence sweep, 

Disturb ye not the hero's sleep. 

With the addition of 

That arm which nerved with thundering 
fate, 
Braved usurpation's boldest daring ! 
One quenched in darkness like the sinking 
star. 
And one the palsied arm of tottering, 
powerless age. 

You will probably have another scrawl 
from me iu a stage or two. R. B. 



NO. CCCXIX. 



TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON. 

Dumfries, 1794. 

My Dear Friend — You should have 
heard from me long ago; but over and above 
some vexatious share in the pecuniary losses 
of tiiese accursed times, I have all this win- 
ter been plagued with low spirits and blue 
devils, so that I have almost hung my harp on 
the willow trees. 

I am just now busy correcting a new 
edition of my poems, and this with my ordi- 
nary business, finds me in full employment. 

1 send you by my friend, Mr. AVallace, 
forty-one songs for your fifth volume ; if we 
cannot finish it any other way, what would 
you think of Scots words to some beautiful 
Irish airs ? In the meantime, at your leisure, 
give a copy of the "Museum " to my worthy 
friend, iMr. Peter Hill, bookseller, to bind for 
me, interleaved with blank leaves, exactly as 
he did the Laird of Gienriddel's, that I may 
insert every anecdote I can learn, together 
with my own criticisms and remarks on the 
songs. A copy of this kind I shall leave 
with you, the editor, to publish at some after 
period, by way of making the " Museum " a 
book famous to the end of time, and you 
renowned for ever. 

I have got a Highland dirk, for which I 
have great veneration, as it once was the 
dirk of Lord Balmerino. It fell into bad 



422 



CORRESPON HENCE OF BURNS. 



hands, who stripped it of the silver mountiiijr, 
us well as the knife and fork. I have some 
thoujjhts of sending it to your care, to get 
it mounted anew. 

'I'liiuik you for the copies of ray Volunteer 
Ballad. Our friend Clarke has done indeed 
well! — 'tis chaste and beautiful. I have not 
met with anything that has pleased me so 
much You know I am no connoisseur ; but 
that I am an amateur will be allowed me. 
R. B. 



NO. CCCXX. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

July, 1794. 

Is there no news yet of Pleyel ? Or is 
your work to be at a dead stop, until the 
allies set our modern Orpheus at liberty 
from the savage thraldom of democrat dis- 
cords ? Alas, the day ! And woe is me ! 
That auspicious period, pregnant with the 
happiness of millions. * « » • 

1 Lave presented a copy of your songs to 
the daughter of a much-valued and much- 
honoured friend of mine, Mr. Graham of 
Fintry. I wrote on the blank side of the 
title-page the following addiess to the young 
lady: 

'' Here, where the Scottish muse immortal 
lives, [join'd. 

In sacred strains and tuneful numbers 
Accept the gift ; tho' humble he who gives. 

Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 
So may no ruffian-feeling (191) in thy 
breast, 

Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among ; 
But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest. 

Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song. 
Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears. 

As modest want the tale of woe reveals : 

While conscious virtue all the strain 

endears, [seals." 

And heaven-bora piety her sauction 



NO. cccxxi. 
TO MR. SAMUEL CLARKE, Jun., 

DUMFRIES. 

Sunday Morning 

Dear Sir — I was, I know, drunk last 
night, but I am sober this morning. From 
the expressions Capt. made use of to 



me, had I had nobody's welfare to care foi 
but my own, we should certainly have come, 
according to the manners of the worM, to 
the necessity of murdering one another 
about tlie business. The words were such 
as, generally, I believe, end in a brace of pis- 
tols ; but I am still pleased to think that I 
did not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife 
and family of children in a drunken squabble. 
Farther, you know that the report of certaia 
political opinions being mine, has already 
once before brought me to the brink of de- 
struction. I dread lest last night's business 
may be misrepresented in the same way. 
You, I beg, will take care to prevent it. I 
tax your wish for Mr. Burns's welfare with 
the task of waiting, as soon as possible, on 
every gentleman who was present, and state 
this to hini, and, as you please, show hira 
this letter. What, after all, was the ob- 
noxious toast ? " May our success in the 
present war be equal to the justice of our 
cause" — a toast that the most outrageous 
frenzy of loyalty cannot object to. I re- 
quest and beg, that this morning you will 
wait on the parties present at the foolish 
dispute. I shall only add, that I am truly 
sorry that a man who stood so high in my 

estimation as Mr. , should use me in 

the manner in which I conceive he has done. 
R. B. 



KO. CCCXXIl. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinhunjh, Aiiyust lOth, 1794. 
My Dear Sir— I owe you an apology 
for having so long delayed to acknowledge 
the favour of your last. 1 fear it will be, as 
you say, I shall have no more songs from 
Pleyel till France and we are friends ; but, 
nevertheless, I am very desirous to be pre- 
pared with the poetry ; and as the season 
approaches iu which your muse of Coda 
visits you, I trust I shall, as formerly, be 
frequently gratified with the result of your 
amorous and tender interviews I 



NO. cccxxm. 
BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August 30(/i, 1794. 
The last evening, as I was straying out, 
and thinking of " O'er the hiLls and far 



BURNS TO MR. lIIOiESON. 



423 



away," 1 spun the following stanza for it ; 
but wlietlier my spinniiif:^ will deserve to be 
laid up ill store, like the precious thread of 
the silk-worm, or brushed to the devil, like 
the vile maiuifacture of the spider, 1 leave 
my dear Sir, to your usual candid criticism. 
1 was pleased with several lines in it at first, 
but I own that now it appears rather a 
flimsy business. 

This is just a hasty sketch, until I see 
whether it be worth a critique. We have 
many sailor songs, but as far as I at preseut 
recollect, they are mostly the effusions of 
the jovial sailor, not the wailiiicrs of his love- 
lorn mistress. I must here make one sweet 
exception — " Sweet Annie frae the sea-beach 
came." Now for the sons : — 

[" On the seas and far awny."] 

I give you leave to abuse this song, but 
do it in the spirit of Christian meekness. 



NO. CCCXXIV. 



MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Sept. 16th, 1794. 

My Dear Sir — You have antiEipated 
ray opinion of " On the seas and far away ; " 
1 do nut think ic one of your very happy 
produeliiiiis, though it certainly contains 
stanzas that are worthy of all acceptation. 

'I'lie second is the least to my liking, par- 
ticularly " Bullets, spare my only joy." 
Confound the bullets ! It miijht, perhaps, 
be objected to the third verse, " At the 
starless midnight hour," that it has too 
much grandeur of imagery, and that greater 
simplicity of thought would have better 
suited the character of a sailor's sweetheart. 
The tune, it must be remembered, is of the 
brisk, cheerful kind. Upon the whole, there- 
fore, in my bumble opinion, the song would 
be better adapted to the tune, if it con- 
sisted only of the first and last verses, with 
the choruses. 



NO. CCCXXV. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Sept. 1794. 

I SHALL withdraw my " On the seas and 
far away " altogether : it is unequal, an J 
iinworthy the work. Making a poem is like 
begetting a son : you cannot know whether 



you have a wise man or a fool, until you 
produce him to the world to try him. 

For that reason I send you the offspring 
of my brain, abortions and all ; and, as 
such, pray look over them and forgive them, 
and burn them. (192) I am flattered at your 
adopting " Ca' the yowes to the knowes," 
as it was owing to me that ever it saw the 
light. About seven years ago I was well 
acquainted with a worthy little fellow of a 
clergyman, a Mr. Clniiie, who sang it charm- 
ingly ; and, at my request, Mr. Clarke took 
it down from his singing. AVIien I gave it 
to Johnson, I added some stanzas to the 
song, and mended others, but still it will 
not do for you. In a solitary stroll which I 
took to-day, I tried my hand on a few 
pastoral lines, following up the idea of the 
chorus, which I would preserve. Here it is, 
with all its crudities and imperfections on 
its head. 

[Here follows " Ca' the yoices."'] 
I shall give you my opinion of your 
other newly adopted songs my first scrib- 
bling fit. 



NO. CCCXXVI. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON 

Sept. 1794. 

Do you know a blackguard Irish song 
called " Onagh's "Waterfall ? " The air is 
charming, and I have often regretted the 
want of decent verses to it. It is too much, 
at least for my humble rustic muse, to 
expect that every effort of hers shall have 
merit ; still, I think it is better to have 
mediocre verses to a favourite air, than none 
at all. Oil this principle I have all along 
proceeded on the Scots Musical Museum ; 
and as that publication is at its last volume, 
I intend the following song, to the air 
above mentioned, for that work. 

If it does not suit you as an editor, you 
may be pleased to have verses to it that you 
can sing in the company of ladies. 

[Uere follows "She says she loues me bi'st 
of a'."] 

Not to compare small things with great, 
my taste in music is like the mighty 
IVederick of Prussia's taste in painting ; we 
are told that he frequently admired what 
the connoisseurs decried, and always with- 
out any hypocrisy confessed bis admiration. 
I am sensible that my ta:>te in music must 
1* 



424 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



be inelegant and vulgar, because people of 
undisputed and cultivated taste can find no 
merit in my favourite tunes. Still, because 
I am cheaply pleased, is that any reason 
why I should deny myself that pleasure ? 
ilaiiy of our strathspeys, ancient and 
modern, give me most exquisite enjoyment, 
where you and other j\ulges would probably 
be showing disgust. For instance, I am 
just now making verses for " Rothemurche's 
rant," an air which puts me in raptures ; 
and, in fact, unless I be pleased with the 
tune, I never can make verses to it. Here I 
have Clarke on my side, who is a judge that 
I will pit against any of you. " Rothe- 
murche," he says, " is an air both original 
and beautiful ; " and, on his recommenda- 
tion, I have taken the first part of the tune 
for a chorus, and the fourth or last part for 
the song. I am but two stanzas deep in the 
work, and possibly you may think, and 
justly, that the poetry is as little worth 
your attention as the music. 

[Here follow two stanzas of the song, 
heyinning "Lassie ivi' the lint-white locks."} 

I have begun anew, "Let me in this ane 
night." Do you think that we ought to 
retain the old chorus ? I think we must 
retaia both the old chorus and the first 
stanza of the old song. I do not altogether 
like the third line of the first stanza, but 
cannot alter it to please myself I am just 
three stanzas deep in it. Would you have 
the denoHcnient to be successful or other- 
wise ? — should she " let him in " or not ? 

Did you not once propose "The sow's 
tail to Geordie " as an air for your work ? 
I am quite delighted with it ; but I acknow- 
ledge that is no mark of its real excellence. 
I once set about verses for it, which I meant 
to be in the alternate way of a lover and his 
mistress chanting together. I have not the 
pleasure of knowing Mrs. Thomson's 
Christian name ; and yours, I am afraid, is 
rather burlesque for sentiment, else I had 
meant to have made you the liero and 
heroine of the little piece. 

How do you like the following epigram 
which I wrote the other day on a lovely 
young girl's recovery from a fever ? Doctor 
Maxwell was the physician who seemingly 
saved her from the grave ; and to him I 
address the following : — 

TO DR. MAXWELU 

ON MISS JESSIE STAIG'S RECOVERY. 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave, 
'I'hat merit I deny : 



You save fair Jessie from the grave ? 
An angel could not die ! 

God grant you patience with this stupid 
epistle 1 



NO. CCCXXVII. 

^ra. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

I PERCEIVE the sprightly muse is now 
attendant upon her favourite poet, whose 
woodnotes wild are become as enchanting as 
ever. " She says she loes me best of a'," is 
one of the pleasantest table songs I have 
seen, and henceforth shall be mine when the 
song is going round. I'll give Cunningham 
a copy ; he can more powerfully proclaim 
its merit. I am far from undervaluing 
your taste for the strathspey music ; on the 
contrary, I think it highly animating and 
agreeable, and that some of the strathspeys, 
when graced with such verses as yours, will 
make very pleasing songs, in the same way 
that rough Christians are tempered and 
softened by lovely woman, without whom, 
you know, they had been brutes. 

I am clear for having the "Sow's tail," 
particularly as your proposed verses to it are 
so extremely promising. Geordie, as you 
observe, is a name only fit for burlesque 
composition. Mrs. Thomson's name (Katha- 
rine) is not at all poetical. Retain Jeanie, 
therefore, and make the other Jamie, or any 
other that sounds agreeably. 

Your " Ca' the ewes " is a precious little 
morceau. Indeed, I am perfectly astonished 
and charmed with the endless variety of 
your fancy. Here let me ask you, whether 
you never seriously turned your thoughts 
upon dramatic w'riting? That is a field 
worthy of your genius, in which it might 
shine forth in all its splendour. One or 
two successful pieces upon the London stage 
would make your fortune. The rage at 
present is for musical dramas : few or none 
of those which have appeared since the 
"Duenna," possess much poetical merit; 
there is little in the conduct of the fable, or 
in the dialogue, to interest the audience; 
they are chiefly vehicles for music and 
pageantry. I think you might produce a 
comic opera in three acts, which would live 
by the poetry, at the same time that it 
would be proper to take every assistance 
from her tuneful sister. Part of the songs, 
of course, would be to our favourite Scottish 
airs ; the rest might be left to the London 
composer — Storace for Drury-laiie, or Shield 



RITRNS TO Vn. THOMSON'. 



4S.'5 



for Covent-garden, both of tlietn verj able 
and popular musicians. I believe that 
interest and manoeuvring are often necessary 
to have a drama brought on ; so it may be 
with the namby-pamby tribe of flowery 
scribblers : but were you to address Mr. 
Sheridan himself by letter, and send hira a 
dramatic piece, I am persuaded he would, 
for the honour of genius, give it a fair and 
candid trial. Excuse me for obtruding 
these hints upon your consideration. (193) 
R. B. 



NO. CCCXXVIII. 



MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 
Edinburgh, October Ut/i, 1794. 

The last eight days have been devoted to 
the re-examination of the Scottish collections. 
I have read, and sung, and fiddled, and 
considered, till I am half blind, and wholly 
stupid. The few airs 1 have added, are 
enclosed. 

Peter Pindar has at length sent me all 
the songs I expected from him, which are, 
in general, elegant and beautiful. Have 
you heard of a London collection of Scottish 
airs and songs, just published by Mr. 
Ritson, an Englishman ? I shall send you 
a copy. His introductory essay on the 
subject is curious, and evinces great reading 
and research, but does not decide the 
question as to the origin of our melodies ; 
though he shows clearly that Jlr. Tytler, in 
his ingenious dissertation, lias adduced no 
sort of proof of the hypothesis he wished to 
establish, aud that his classification of the 
airs according to the eras \i hen they were 
composed, is mere fancy and conjecture. 
On John Pinkerton, Esq., he has no mercy, 
but consigns him to damnatiou. He snarls 
at my publication, on the score of Pindar 
being engaged to write songs for it ; un- 
candidly and unjustly leaving it to be 
inferred, that the songs of Scottish writers 
liad been sent a-packing to make room for 
Peter's ! Of you he speaks with some 
respect, but gives you a parsing hit or two, 
for daring to dress up a little some old 
foolish songs for the IMuseum. His sets of 
the Scottish airs are taken, he says, from 
the oldest collections and best authorities ; 
many of them, however, have such a strange 
aspect, and are so unlike the sets wliich are 
sung by every person of taste, ol<l or young, 
in town or country, that we can scarcely 
recogmse the features of our favourites. By 



going to the oldest collections of our music, 
it does not follow that we find the melodies 
in their original state. These melodies had 
been preserved, we know not how long, by 
oral coiumunication, before being collected 
and printed ; and, as different persons sing 
the same air very differently, according to 
their accurate or confused recollection ol it, 
so, even supposing the first collectors to 
possess the industry, taste, and discernment, 
to choose the best they could hear (which is 
far from certain), still it must evidently be 
a chance, whether the cuUeetions exhibit 
any of the melodies in the state they wert 
first composed. In selecting the melodies 
fir my own collection, I have been as much 
guiiled by the living as by the dead 
Where these differed, I preferred the sets 
that appeared to me the most simple and 
beautiful, and the most generally approved : 
and without meaning any compliment to my 
own capability of choosing, or speaking of 
the pains I have taken, I flatter myself that 
my !.ets will be found equally free from 
vulgar errors on the cue hand, and affected 
graces on the other. 



NO. CCCXXIX. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

October IQlh, 1794. 
My Dear Friend — By this morning's 
post I have your li^t, and, in general, I 
liighly approve of it. I shall, at more lei- 
sure, give you a critique on the whole. 
Clarke goes to your town by to-day's fly, 
and 1 wish you would call on him and take 
his opinion in general : you know his taste 
is a standard. He will return here again in 
a week or two, so please do not miss asking 
for him. One thing I hope he will do — 
persuade you to adopt my favourite, "Craigie- 
burn wood," in your selection : it is as great 
a favourite of his as of mine. The lady on 
whom it was made is one of the finest women 
in Scotland ; aud in fact {enire nous) is in a 
manner to me, what Sterne's Eliza was to 
hira — a mistress, or friend, or what you will, 
in the guileless simplicity of Platonic love. 
(Now, don't put any of your squinting con- 
structions on this, or have any clishmadaver 
about it among our acquaintances.) I assure 
you that to ny lovely friend you are indebted 
for many of your best songs of mine. Uo 
you think ti.at the sober, giu-horse routine 
of existence could inspire a man with life. 



42fi 



fORnp'ST'oynPivriR of burns. 



and love, and joy — could tire liiiu with enthu- 
siasm, or melt him with pathos, equal to the 
peniiis of your book ? No ! no ! Whenever 
1 want to be more than ordinary in song — to 
be in some degree equal to your diviner airs 
— do you imagine I fast and pray for the 
celestial emanation ? Tout au contraire ! I 
have a glorious recipe; the very one that for 
his own use was invented by the divuiity of 
healing and poetry, when erst he piped to 
the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a 
regimen of admiring a fine woman ; and in 
proportion to the adorability of her charms, 
in proportion you are delighted with my 
verses. The lightning of her eye is the god- 
head of I'arnasius, and the witchery of her 
smile the divuiity of Helicon 1 

To descend to business ; if you like my 
idea of " When she cam ben she bobhit," the 
following stanzas of mine, altered a little 
from what they vere formerly, when set to 
another air, may perhaps do instead of worse 
stanzas : — 

[Here follows " Savi ye my Philly."'} 

Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. 
"The Posie" (in the Museum) is my compo- 
sition ; the air was taken down from Jlrs. 
Buriis's voice. (194) It is well known in 
the west country, but the old words are 
trash. By the bye, take a look at the tune 
again, and tell me if you do not think it is 
the original from which "Roslin Castle" is 
composed. The second part, in particular, 
for the first two or three bars, is exactly the 
old air. " Strathallan's Lament " is mine ; 
the music is by our right trusty and 
deservedly well-beloved Allan Masterton. 
"Donocht-Head" (193) is not mine; I would 
give ten pounds it were. It appeared first 
in the Edinburgh Herald, and came to the 
editor of that paper with the Newcastle post- 
mark on it. (196) "Whistle o'er the lave 
o't" is mine : the music said to be by a 
John Bruce, a celebrated violin player in 
Dumfries, about the beginning of this 
century. This I know, Bruce, wlio was an 
honest man, though a red-wud Highlandman, 
constantly claimed it ; and by all the old 
musical people here, is believed to be the 
author of it. 

"Andrew and his cutty gun." The song to 
which this is set in the Museum is mine, and 
was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of 
Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called 
the Flower of Stratliraore. 

" How long and dreary is the niglit ! " I 
met with some such words iu a collection of 
songs sou;ewhere, which I altered and 



enlarged ; and to please you, and to suit 
)'our favourite air, 1 have taken a stride or 
two across my room and have arranged it 
anew, as you will find on the other jiage. 

[^Ilere folloius " How long and dreary is 
the Night."] 

Tell me how you like this. I differ from 
your idea of the expression of the tune. 
There is, to me, a great deal of tenderness in 
it. You cannot, in my opinion, dispense 
with a bass to your addenda airs. A lady of 
my acquaintance, a noted performer, plays 
and sings at the same time so charmingly, 
that I shall never bear to see any of her songs 
sent into the world, as naked as Mr. What- 
d'ye-call-uni has done in his London collec- 
tion. (197) 

These English songs gravel me to death. 
I have not that command of the language 
that I have of my native tongue. I have 
been at " Duncau Gray," to dress it in 
English, but all I can do is deplorably stupid. 
For instance : — 

[Here follows "Let not Woman e'er 
complain."] 

Since the above, I have been out in the 
country taking a dinner with a friend, where 
I met with the lady whom I mentioned 
in the second page iu this odds-and-ends of 
a letter. As usual, I got into song ; and 
returning home I composed the following: — 

THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE 
TO HIS MISTRESS. 

Tune — Deil tak the Wars. 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest crea- 
ture ; 

Rosy morn now lifts his eye. 
Numbering ilka bud which nature 

Waters wi' the te.irs o' joy : 

Now thro' the leafy woods, 

And by the recking floods, 
Wild nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray. 

The lintwhite in his bower 

Chants o'er the breathing flower; 

The lav'rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy. 
While the sun and thou arise to bless tho 
day. 

Phoebus gilding the brow o' raornmg. 

Banishes ilk darksome shade. 
Nature gladd'ning and adorning; 

Such to me my lovely maid. 

When absent frae ray fair. 

The murky shades o' care 



TO MR THOMSON. 



427 



\.'.tn dtarless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky ; 

lint when in beauty's lijjht, 

She meets my ravished sii;ht, 

When throui,'h my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart ; 
Tis then I wake to life, to light, end 
joy! (198) 

If you honour my verses by setting the 
air to them, I will vamp up the old song, and 
wake it English enough to be understood. 

1 enclose you a musical cnriosity, an East 
Indian air, which you would swear was a 
Scottish one. I know the authenticity of it, 
as tlie gentleman who brought it over is a 
particular acquaintance of mine. Do pre- 
serve uie the copy 1 send you, as it is the 
only one I have. Clarke has set a bass to it, 
and I intend putting it into the Musical 
Museum. Here follow the verses I intend 
for it. 

[Here fuUows "But lately seen in glad- 
some yreen."^ 

I would be obliged to you if you would 
procure me a sight of Ritson's collection of 
English songs, which you mention in your 
letter. I will thank you for another infor- 
mation, and that as speedily as you please : 
whether this miserable, drawling, hotchpotch 
epistle has not completely tired you of my 
correspon deuce ? 



NO. CCCXXX. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, October 27th, 1794. 

I AM sensible, my dear friend, that a 
genuine poet can no more exist without his 
mistress than his meat. I wish I knew the 
adorable she, whose bright eyes and witching 
smiles have so often enraptured the Scottish 
bard, that I might drink her sweet health 
w hen the toast is going round. " Craige- 
burn wood " must certainly be adopted into 
my family, since she is the object of the 
song; but, in the name of decency, I must 
beg a new chorus verse from you. " Oh to 
be lying beyond thee, dearie," is perhaps a 
consummation to be wished, but will not do 
for singing in the company of ladies. The 
Bongs in your last will d ) you lasting credit, 
aiid suit the respective airs charmingly. I am 
perfectly of your opinion with respect to 
the additional airs. The idea of sending 



them into the world naked as they were 
born, was ungenerous. Thf-y must all be 
cldtlied and made decent by our friend 
Clarke. 

1 lind I am anticipated by the friendly 
Cunningham in sending you Ritson's Scot- 
tish collection. Permit me, therefore, to 
present you with his English collection, 
which you will receive by the coach. 1 do 
not lind his historical essay on Scottish song 
interesting. Your anecdotes and miscella- 
neous remarks will, I am sure, be much more 
so. Allan has just sketched a charming de- 
sign from " Maggie Lauder." She is dancing 
with such spirit as to electrify the piper, who 
seems almost dancing too, while he is playing 
with the most exquisite glee. 1 am much 
inclined to get a small copy, and to have it 
engraved in the style of Ritson's prints. 

PS. Pray what do your anecdotes say 
concerning " Maggie Lauder ?" — was she a 
real personage, and of what rank ? You 
would surely ■' spier for her, if you ca'd at 
A.nstruther town." 



NO. cccxxxi. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

November, 1794. 

!Many thanks to you, my dear Sir, for 
your present; it is a book of the utmost 
importance to me. I have yesterday begun 
my anecdotes, &c., for your work. 1 intend 
drawing them up in the form of a letter to 
yon, which will save me from the tedious 
dull business of systematic ari-angemcnt. 
Lideed, as all I have to say consists of un- 
unconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps of 
old songs, &c., it would be impossible to give 
the work a beginning, a middle, and an end, 
which the critics insist to be abolutely iieces- 
sary in a work. In my last, I told you my 
objections to the song you had selected for 
" My lodging is on the cold ground." On 
my visit the other day to my fair Chloris 
(that is the poetic name of the lovely god- 
dess of my inspiration), she suggested an 
idea, which I, on my return from the visit, 
wrought into the following song. 

"My Chloris, mark how green the groves." 

How do you like the simplicity and ten- 
derness of this pastoral ? I think it prett) 
well. 



12» 



CORRESPOND E.NCE OF BURXS. 



1 like you for entering so candidly and so 
kiiidly into the story of " ma chere ctmle." 
I assure you I was never more earnest in my 
life, than in the account of tliat aifuir whicli 
I sent you in my last. Conjugal love is a 
passion which I deeply feel, and hijchly vene- 
rate ; but somehow it dues not make such a 
tijfure in poesy as that other species of the 
passion, 

Wliere love is liberty, and nature law. 

Musically speaking, the first is an instru- 
ment of which tlie gamut is scanty and 
conliiied, bat the tones inexpressibly sweet, 
while tlie last has powers equal to all tiie 
inff-llectual modulations of the human soul. 
Still, 1 am a very poet in my enthusiasm 
of the passion. The welfare and happiness 
of the beloved object is tlie first and invio- 
late sentiment that pervades my soul ; and 
whatever pleasures I might wish for, or 
whatever might be the raptures they would 
give me, yet, if they interfere with that first 
principle, it is having these pleasures at a 
dishonest price ; and justice forbids, and 
generosity disdains, the purchase I (199) 

Despairing of my own powers to give you 
variety enough in English songs, 1 have 
been turning over old collections, to pick 
out songs, of which the measure is some- 
tliiiig similar to what I want; and, with a 
little alteration, so as to suit the rhythm of 
the air exactly, to give you them for your 
work. Where the songs have hitherto been 
but little noticed, nor have ever been set to 
music, 1 think the shift a fair one. A song, 
which, under the same first verse, you will 
find in Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany, I 
have cut down for an English dress to your 
" Dainty Davie," as follows : — 

" It was the charming month of May." 

You may think meanly of this, but take 
a look at the bombast original, and you will 
be surprised that 1 have made so much of 
it. 1 have finished my song to " Rothe- 
murche's rant," and you have Clarke to 
consult as to the set of the air for singiii"'-. 

[Here follows "Lassie wi' the liiU-white 
locks : "1 

This piece has at least the merit of being 
a regular pastoral : the vernal morn, the 
summer noon, the autumnal evening, and 
the winter night, are regularly rounded. If 
you like it, well; if not, I will insert it in 
the Museum. 



NO. CCCXXXII. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

I All out of temper that you should set 
80 sweet, so tender an air, as " Deil tak the 
wars," to the foolish old verses. You talk 
of the silliness of " Saw ye my father ? " 
(200) — by Heavens! the odds are gold to 
brass I Besides, the old song, though now 
pretty well modernised into the Scottish 
language, is originally, and in the early 
editions, a bungling low imitation of the 
Scottish manner, by that genius Tom 
D'Urfey, so has no pretensions to be a 
Scottish production. There is a pretty 
English song by Sheridan, in the " Uuenua," 
to this air, which is out of sight superior to 
D'Urfey's. It begins, 

" When sable night each drooping plant 
restoring." 

The air, if I understand the expression of 
it properly, is the very native language of 
simplicity, tenderness, and love. I have 
again gone over my song to the tune as 
follows. (201) 

Now for my English song to " Nancy'g 
to the greenwoods," &c. 

[Here follows the song "Farewell thou 
stream."^ 

There is an air, " The Caledonian Hunt's 
delight," to which I wrote a song that you 
will find in Johnson, " Ye banks and braes 
o' bonnie Doon : " this air, I think, might 
find a place among your hundred, as Lear 
says of his knights. Do you know the 
history of the air ? It is curious enough. 
A good many years ago, Mr. James Miller, 
writer in your good town, a gentleman whom 
possibly you know, was in company with our 
friend Clarke; and talking of Scottish music, 
Miller expressed an ardent ambition to be 
able to compose a Scots air. Mr. Clarke, 
partly by way of joke, told him to keep to 
the black keys of the harpsicord, and pre- 
serve some kind of rhytlnn, and he would 
infallibly compose a Scots air. Certain it is 
that, in a few days, Mr. Miller produced the 
rudiments of an air, which Mr. Clarke, with 
some touches and corrections, fashioned into 
the tune in question. Ritson, you know, 
has the same story of the black keys ; but 
this account which I have just given you, 
Mr. Clarke informed me of several years 
ago. Now, to show you how ditticult it is 
to trace the origin of our airs, I have heard 
it repeatedly asserted that this was an Irish 
air; nay, I met with an Irish gentleman 



TO MR. THOIISON. 



who affirmed lie had heard it in Ireland 
among the old women ; while, on the other 
hand, a countess informed me, that the first 
person who introduced the air into this 
country, was a baronet's lady of her ae- 
quaintanre, who took down the notes from 
an itinerant piper in the Isle of Man. How 
difficult, then, to ascertain the truth re3| ect- 
ing our poesy and music ! I, myself, have 
lately seen a couple of ballads sung through 
the streets of Dumfries, with my name at 
the head of them as the author, though 
it was the first time I had ever seen 
them. 

I thank you for admitting " Craigieburn 
wood : " and I shall take care to furnish 
you with a new chorus. In fact, the chorus 
was not my work, but a part of some old 
verses to the air. If I can catch myself in 
a more than ordinarily propitious moment, 
I shad write a new " Cragieburu wood" 
altogether. IMy heart is much iu the 
theme. 

I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make 
the request; 'tis dunning your generosity; 
but in a moment when I had forgotten 
whether I was rich or poor, I promised 
Chloris a copy of your songs. It wrings 
my honest pride to write you this ; but an 
ungracious request is doubly so by a tedious 
apology. To make you some amends, as 
soon as I have extracted the necessary infor- 
mation out of them, I will return you Rit- 
sou's volumes. 

The lady is not a little proud that she is 
to make so distinguished a figure in your 
collection, and I am not a little proud that I 
have It in my power to please her so much. 
Lucky it is for your patience that my paper 
is done, for when 1 am in a scribbling 
humour, I kuow not when to give over. 



NO. cccxxxm. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

November I5th, 179-1. 

My Good Sir— Since receiving your last, 
I have had anotlier interview with Mr. Clarke, 
and a long consultation. He thinks the 
" Caledonian Hunt " is more bacchanalian 
than amorous in its nature, and recommends 
it to you to match the air accordingly. Pray, 
did it ever occur to you how peculiarly well 
the Scottish airs are adapted for verses in the 
form of a dialogue ? The first part of the 
air is generally low, and suited for a man's 



voice ; and the second part, in many in- 
stances, cannot be sung, at concert pitch, 
hut by a female voice. A song thus per- 
formed mikes an agreeable variety, but few 
of ours are written in this form : I wish you 
would think of it in some of those that 
remain. The only one of the kind you have 
sent me is admirable, aud will be an universal 
favourite. 

Your verses for " Rothemurche " are so 
swcf.ly pastoral, and your serenade to 
Chloris, for "Deil tak the Wars," so passion- 
ately tender, that I have sung myself into 
raptures with them. Your song for " My 
lodging is on the cold ground," is likewise a 
diamond of the first water : I am quite daz- 
zled and delighted by it. Some of your 
Chlorises, I suppose, have flaxen hair, from 
your partiality for this colour — else we differ 
aliout it ; for I should scarcely conceive a 
woman to be a beauty, on reading that she 
had lint-white locks ! 

" Farewell thou stream that winding 
flows," I think, excellent, but it is much too 
serious to come after "Nancy;" — at least, it 
would seem an incongi-uity to provide the 
same air with merry Scottish and melancholy 
English verses ! The more that the two sets 
of verses resemble each other, in their gen- 
eral character, the better. Those you have 
manufactured for "Dainty Davie" will 
answer charmingly. I am happy to find you 
have begun your anecdotes : I care not how 
long they be, for it is impossible that any- 
thing from your pen can be tedious. Let 
me beseech you not to use ceremony in 
telling me when you wish to present any of 
your friends with the songs: the next carrier 
will bring you three copies, and yon are as 
welcome to twenty as to a pinch of 8uu£L 



NO. cccxxxiv. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

November Idth, 1794. 

You see, my dear Sir, what a punctual 
correspondent I am ; though, indeed, you 
may thank yourself for the tedium of my 
letters, as you have so flattered me on my 
horsemanship with my favourite hobby, aud 
have praised the grace of his ambling so 
much, that I am scarcely ever off his back. 
For instance, this morning, though a keea 
blowing frost, in my walk before breakfast, I 
finished my duet, which you were pleased to 
praise so much. Whether I have uniformly 



4:^0 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



BuccecJed, I will not say ; but here it is for 
you. thoujrh it is not an hour old. 

[Here follows the sonj "Pldlly and 
TVilly."] 

Tell me honestly how you like it, and point 
out whatever you think faulty. 

I am much pleased with your idea of 
singing our songs in alternate stanzas, and 
regret that you did not hint it to me sooner. 
In those that remain, I shall have it in my eye. 
I remember your objections to the name 
Philly, but it is the common abbreviation of 
Pliillis. Sally, the only other name that 
suits, has, to my ear, a vulgarity about it, 
which unfits it for anything except burlesque. 
The legion of Scottish poetasters of the day, 
whom your brother editor, Mr. Ritson, ranks 
with me as my coevals, have always mistaken 
vulgarity for simplicity ; whereas, simplicity 
is as much eloignee from vulgarity on the one 
hand, as from affected point and puerile con- 
ceit on the other. 

I agree with you as to the air, " Craigie- 
bnrn wood," that a chorus would, in some 
degree, spoil the effect, and shall certainly 
have none in my projected song to it. It is 
not, however, a case in point with " Rothe- 
murche ; " there, as in " Roy's wife of Ahli- 
valloch," a chorus goes, to my taste, well 
enough. As to the chorus going first, 
that is the case with Roy's wife, as well 
as " Rothemnrche." In fact, in the first 
part of both tunes, the rhythm is so peculiar 
and irregular, and on that irregularity 
depends so much of their beauty, that we 
must e'en take them with all their wildness, 
and humour the verse accordingly. Leaving 
out the starting note, in both tunes, has, I 
think, an effect that no regularity could 
counterbalance the want of. 



Try, 
and 



Oh Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 
Oh lassie wi' the lint-white 
' locks. 



■ Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 
oompare with, \ Lassie wi' the liut-white 
( locks. 

Does not the tameness of the prefixed sylla- 
ble strike you? In the last case, with the 
tnie furor of genius, you strike at once into 
the wild originality of the air; whereas, in 
the first insipid method, it is like the grating 
screw of the pins before the fiddle is brought 
into tune. This is my taste; if I am wrong, 
1 bfg pardon of the co(/Hoscenti. 

"The Caledonian Hunt" is so charming, 
that it would make any subject in a song go 
down ! but pathos is certainly its native 
tongue. Scottish bacchanalians we certainly 



want, though the few we have are excellent. 
For instance, " Todlin hame," is, for wit and 
humour, an unparalleled composition; and 
"Andrew and his cutty gun," is the work of 
a master. By the way, are you not quite 
vexed to think that those men of genius, for 
such they certainly were, who composed our 
fine Scottish lyrics, should be uuknown? It 
has given me many a heart-ache. A-propos 
to bacchanalian songs in Scotch, I com- 
posed one yesterday, for an air I like much 
— " Lumps o' pudding." 

[Here follows " Contented wi' Little."'] 

If you do not relish this air, I will send it 
to Johnson. 



jro. cccxxxv. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Since yesterday's penmanship, I have 
framed a couple of English stanzas, by way 
of an English song to " Roy's Wife." You 
will allow me, that in this instance my 
English corresponds in sentiment with the 
Scottish. 

[Here follows " Canst thou leave me thus, 
my Katy ? "] 

Well ! I think this to be done in two or 
three turns across my room, and witli two or 
three pinches of Irish blackguard, is not so 
far amiss. You see I am determined to have 
my quantum of applause from somebody. 

Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that 
we only want the trifling circumstance of 
being known to one another, to be the best 
friends on earth), that I much suspect he 
has, in his plates, mistaken the figure of the 
stock and horn. I have, at last, gotten one, 
but it is a very rude instrument. It is com- 
posed of three parts; the stock, which is the 
hinder thigh-bone of a sheep, such as you 
see in a mutton ham ; the horn, which is 
a common Highland cow's horn, cut off at 
the smaller end, until the aperture be large 
enough to admit the stock to be pushed up 
through the horn until it be held by the 
thicker end of the thigh-bone ; and lastly, 
an oaten reed exactly cut and notched 
like that which you see every shepherd l>oy 
have, when the corn-stems are green and 
full-grown. The reed is not made fast iu 
the bone, but is held by the lips, and plays 
loose in the smaller end of the stock ; while 
the stock, with the horn hanging on its 
larger end, is held by the hands in playing. 



MR. THO^rSON TO BURNS. 



431 



TTie stoc1< ha' six or seven vpnti;;fe3 on the 
upper side, and one back-veiitige, like the 
coniinou lltite. This of mine was made by a 
man from tlie braes of Athole, and is exactly 
what the shepherds are wont to use in that 
country. 

However, either it is not quite properly 
bored in the holes, or else we have not the 
art of blowing- it rightly ; for we can make 
little of it. If Air. Allan chooses, I will send 
him a sight of mine, as I look on myself to 
be a kind of brother-brush with him. " Pride 
in poets is nae sin ; " and I will say it, that 
I look on Jlr. Allan and Mr. Burns to be 
the only genuine and real painters of Scottish 
costume in the world. 



NO. CCCXXXVI. 



TO PETER MILLER, JuN., Esa. (202), 

OP DALSWINTON. 

Dumfries, November, 1/94. 

Dear Sir — Your offer is indeed truly 
generous, and most sincerely do I thank you 
for it ; but in my present situation, I find 
that I dare not accept it. You well know 
my political sentiments ; and were I an 
insular individual, unconnected with a wife 
and a family of children, with the most 
fervid enthusiasm I would have volunteered 
my services : I then could and would have 
despised all consequences that might have 
ensued. 

Jly prospect in the Excise is something ; 
at least, it is, encumbered as I am with the 
welfare, the very existence, of near half-a- 
score of helpless individuals — what I dare 
not sport with. 

In the mean time, they are most welcome 
to my ode ; only, let them insert it as a 
thing they have met with by accident, and 
unknown to me. Nay, if Mr. Perry, whose 
hoiioiir, after your character of him, I 
cannot doubt, if he will give me an address 
and channel by which any thing will come 
safe from those spies with i,\hich he may be 
certain that his correspondence is beset, I 
will now and then send him any bagatelle 
that I may write. In the present hurry of 
Europe, nothing but news and politics will 
be regarded ; but against tlic days of peace, 
which Heaven send soon, my little assis- 
tance may perhaps fill up an idle column of 
a newspaper. 1 have long had it in my 
head to try my hand in the way of little 
prose essays, which I propose sendiug into 

3 



the world through the medium of some 
newspaper ; and should these be worth his 
while, to these Mr. Perry shall be welcome : 
and all my reward shall be, his treating me 
with his paper, which, by the bye, to any 
body who has the least relish for wit, is !% 
high treat indeed. With the most grateful 
esteem, I am ever, dear Sir, K. B 



NO. CCCXXXVI I. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

November 28lk, 1794. 

I ACKNOWLEDGE, my dear Sir, you are not 
only the most punctual, but the most delec- 
table correspondent I ever met with. To 
attempt flattering you never entered into my 
head ; the truth is. 1 look back with surprise at 
my impudence, in so frequently nibbling at 
lines and couplets of your incomparable 
lyrics, for which, perhaps, if you had served 
me right, you would have sent me to the 
devil. On the contrary, however, you have 
ail along condescended to invite my criticism 
with so much courtesy, that it ceases to be 
wonderful if I have sometimes given myself 
the airs of a reviewer. Your last budget 
demands unqualified praise : all the songs 
are charming, but the duet is a chsj 
d'ceuvre. " Lumps o' pudding " shall cer- 
tainly make one of my family dislies ; you 
have cooked it so capitally, that it will 
please all palates. Do give us a few more 
of this cast when you fiiul yourself in good 
spirits ; these convivial songs are more 
wanted than those of the amorous kind, of 
which we have great choice. Besides, one 
does not often meet with a singer capable of 
giving the proper effect to the latter, while 
the former are easily sung, and acceptable to 
every body. I participate in your regret 
that the authors of some of our best songs 
are unknown ; it is provoking to every 
admirer of genius. 

I mean to have a picture painted from 
your beautiful ballad " The Soldier's Re- 
turn," to be engraved for one of my frontis- 
pieces. The most interesting point of time 
appears to me, when she first recognises her 
ain dear M illy, " She gaz'd, she rcdden'd 
like a rose.'' The three lints immediately 
following are no doubt more impressive on 
the reader's feelings ; but were the painter 
to fix on these, then you'll ob>er\e the 
animation and anxiety of her countenance la 
gone, and he could only represent her faint 



432 



CORRESrOXDENCE OF BURNS. 



ing in the soldier's arms. But I submit the 
matter to yovi, and beg your opinion. 

Allan desires me to thank you for your 
accurate description of the stock and horn, 
and for the very gratifying compliment you 
pay him in considering him worthy of 
standing in a niche by the side of Burns in 
the Scottish Pantheon. He has seen the 
rude instrument you describe, so does not 
want you to send it ; but wishes to know 
whether you believe it to have ever been 
reiierally used as a musical pipe by the 
Scottish shepherds, and when, and in what 
part of the country chiefly. I doubt much 
if it was capable of any thing but routing 
and roaring. A friend of mine says he 
remembers to have heard one in his younger 
days, made of wood instead of your bone, 
and that the sound was abominable. 

Do not, I beseech vou. return any books. 



NO. CCCXXXVIII. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

December, 1794. 

It is, I assure you, the pride of my heart 
to do any thing to forward or add to the 
value of your book ; and as I agree with 
you that the Jacobite song in the IMuseum 
to "There'll never be peace till Jamie comes 
hame," would not so well consort with 
Peter Pindar's excellent love-song to that 
air, I have just framed for you the fol- 
lowing : — 

"My Nannie's awa," §'c. 

How does this please you? As to the points 
of time for the expression, in your proposed 
print from my " Sodger's Return," It must 
certainly be at — " She gaz'd." The in- 
teresting dubiety and suspense taking 
possession of her countenance, and the 
gushing fondness, with a mixture of roguish 
playfulness in his, strike me as things of 
which a master will make a great deal. In 
great haste, but in great truth, yours, R. B. 



NO. CCCXXXIX. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

January, 1795. 

I FEAR for my songs ; however, a few 
taay please, yet originality is a coy feature 



in composition, and in a nmltiplitcity of 
efforts in the same style, disappears al- 
together. For these three thousand years, 
we poetic folks have been describing the 
spring, for instance ; and as the spring con- 
tinues the same, there must soon be a same- 
ness in the imagery, &c., of these said 
rhyming folks. 

A great critic (Aikin) on songs, says that 
love and wine are the exclusive themes for 
song-writing. The following is on neither 
subject, and consequently is no song ; but 
will be allowed, I think, to be two or three 
pretty good prose thoughts inverted into 
rhyme. 

" For a' that, and a' that." 

I do not give you the foregoing song for 
your book, but merely by way of vive la 
bagatelle; for the piece is not really poetry. 
How will the following do for " Craigie-bum 
wood ? '■ — 

\_Here follows " Craigle-bum wood," 

Farewell 1 God bless you I 



NO. CCCXL. 



MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, January 30, 1795. 

My dear Sir— I thank you' heartily for 
" Nannie's awa," as well as for " Craigie- 
burn," which I think a very comely pair. 
Your observation on the difficulty of original 
writing in a number of efforts, in the same 
style, strikes me very forcibly ; and it has, 
again and again, excited my wonder to find 
you continually surmounting this difficulty, 
in the many delightful songs you have sent 
me. Your vive la bagatelle song, "For a' 
that," shall undoubtedly be included in my 
list. (203) 



NO. CCCXLI. 

BURNS TO MR. TH0:MS0N. 

Ecclefechan, February 7th, 1795. 

My dear Thomson — You cannot hare 
any idea of the predicament in which I write 
to you. In the course of my duty as super- 
visor (in which capacity I have acted of late), 
I came yesternight to this unfortunate. 



TO MRS. x^IDDEL. 



4£3 



wicked, little village. (204) I have frone 
forward, I nt snows, of ten feet deep, have 
impeded my progress : I have tried to " gae 
back the gate I cam again," but tlie same 
obstacle has shut me up within insuperable 
bars. To add to my misfortune, since dinner, 
a scraper has been torturing catgut, in sounds 
that would have insulted the dying agonies 
of a sow under the hands of a butcher, and 
thinks himself, on that very account, ex- 
ceeding good company. In fact, I have been 
in a dilemma, either to get drunk, to forget 
these miseries ; or to hang myself, to get rid 
of them : like a prudent man (a character 
congenial to ray every thought, word, and 
deed), I, of two evils, have chosen the least, 
and am very drunk, at your service ! 

I wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. I 
had not time then to tell you all I wanted to 
say ; and. Heaven knows, at present I have 
not capacity. 

Uo you know an air — I am sure you must 
know it — "We'll gang no more to yon town?" 
1 iliink, in slowish time, it would make an 
excellent song. I am highly delighted with 
it ; and if you should think it worthy of 
your attention, I have a fair dame in my eye, 
to whom I would consecrate it. 

As I am just going to bed, I wish you a 
good night. 



NO. CCCXLII, 

.MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

February 2'Uli, 1795. 

T HAVE to thank yoti, my dear Sir, for two 
epistles ; one containing " Let me in this ane 
night;" and the other from Ecclefechan, 
proving thai, drunk or sober, your " mmd is 
never nnuhly." You have displayed great 
address iu the above song. Her answer is 
excellent, and, at the same time, takes away 
the indelicacy that oth'Twise would have 
attached to his entreaties. I like the song, 
as it now stands, very much. 

1 had hopes you would be arrested some 
days at Eccleiechan, and be obliged to be- 
guile the tedious forenoons by song-making. 
It will give me pleasure to receive the verses 
you intend for " Oh wat je wLa's iu you 
town?" 



NO. CCCXLIII. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. (205) 
May, 1793. 

Let me know, your very first leisure, how 
you like this song. 

[Ilere follows the song " On Chloris being i.'Z."] 

IIow do you like the foregoing? The 
Irish air, " Humours of {jlen," is a great 
favourite of mine, and as, e.vcept tlie silly 
stuff in the " Poor Soldier," there are not 
any decent verses for it, 1 have written for it 
as follows : — 

[Here follow " Their groves o' sweet myrtle," 
and " 'Twos na her boniiie blue ee was my 
ruin."] 

Let me hear from you. 



^Burna supposes himself to be writing from 
the dead to the lioing.^ 

NO. CCCXLIV. 

TO MRS. RIDDEI.. 

^I.ADAM — I dare say that this is the first 
epistle you ever received from this nether 
world. I write you from the regions of hell, 

amid the horrors of tlie . The lime 

and manner of my leaving your earth I do 
not exactly know, as I took my departure in 
the beat cf a fever of intoxication, contracted 
at your too hospitable mansion ; but, on my 
arrival here, L was fairly tried, and sentenced 
to endure the purgatorial tortures of this 
infernal conline for the space of ninety-nine 
years, eleven months, and twenty-nine days, 
and all on account of the impropriety of my 
conduct yesternight under your roof Here 
am I, laid on a bed of pitiless furze, with 
my aching head reclined on a pillow of ever- 
piercing thorn, while an infernal tormentor, 
wrinkled, and o'd, and cruel, his name, I 
think, is Recollection, with a whip of scor- 
pious, forbids peace or rest to approach me, 
and keeps anguish eternally awake. Still, 
Madam, if 1 could in any measure be rein- 
stated in the good opinion of the fair circle 
whom my conduct last nisrht so much injured, 
I think !t wouhl be an alleviation to my tor- 
ments. For this reason, I trouble you with 
this letter. To the men of the comjiany I 
will make no apology. Your husband, who 
insisted on my drinking more tlia.n I chose, 
' has no right to blame me ; and the otiier 



434 



CORRESPONDENCE OP BURNS. 



gentlemen were partakers of my guilt. But 
to you. Madam, I have much to apologise. 
y(Hir good opinion I valued as one of the 
greatest acquisitions I had made on earth, 
and I was truly a beast to forfeit it. There 

was a Miss I , too, a woman of fine 

sense, gentle and unassuming manners— do 

make, on my part, a miserable 

wretch's best apology to lier. A Mrs. 

Gf , a charming woman, did me the 

honour to be prejudiced in my favour; this 
makes me hope that I have not outraged her 
beyond all forgiveness. To all the other 
ladies please present my humblest contrition 
for my conduct, and my petition for their 
gracious pardon. Oh all ye powers of de- 
cency and decorum ! whisper to them that 
my errors, though great, were involuntary — 
that an intoxicated man is the vilest of 
beasts — that it was not in my nature to be 
brutal to any one — that to be rude to a 
woman, when in my senses, was impossible 

with me — but 

* * • • • 

Regret ! Remorse ! Shame ! ye three hell- 
hounds that ever dog my steps and bay at 
my heels, spare me ! spare me ! 

Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition 
of Madam, your humble sla\ e, R, B. 



NO. CCCXLV. 

TO THE SAME. 



Dumfries, 1795. 

Me. Burns's compliments to Mrs. Riddel 
—IS much obliged to her for her polite atten- 
tion m sending him the book. Owing to 
Mr. B. at present acting as supervisor of 
Excise, a department that occupies his every 
hour of the day, he has not that time to 
spare which is necessary for any belle-lettre 
pursuit ; but as he will in a week or two 
agani return to his wonted leisure, he will 
then pay that attention to Mrs. R.'s beauti- 
ful song, "To thee, loved Nith," which it so 
well deserves. (206) When "Anacharsis' 
Travels " come to hand, which Mrs. Riddel 
mentioned as her gift to the public library, 
Mr. B. will feel honoured by the indulgence 
of a perusal of them before presentation : it 
is a book he has never yet seen, and the 
regulations of the library allow too little 
•eisure for deliberate readinjr. 



Friday Evening. 
P.S. Mr. Burns will be much obliged tc 
Mrs. Riddel if she will favour him with a 
perusal of any of her poetical pieces which 
he may not ha\e seen. 



Ntt nccxLVi. 



TO MR. HERON, OF HERON. (207} 
Dumfries, 1795. 
Sir — I enclose you some copies of a couple 
of political ballads, one of which, I believe, 
you have never seen. (208) Would to 
Heaven I could make you master of as many 
votes in the Stewartry — but— 

Who does the utmost that he can. 
Does well, acts nobly— angels could no more. 

In order to bring my humble efforts to 
bear with more effect on the foe, I have pri- 
vately printed a good many copies of both 
ballads, and have sent them among friends 
all about the country. 

To pillory on Parnassus the rank reproba- 
tion of character, the utter dereliction of all 
principle, in a profligate junto, which has not 
only outraged virtue, but violated common 
decency; which, spurning even hypocrisy as 
paltry iniquity below their daring— to un- 
mask their flagitiousness to the broadest day 
—to deliver such over to their merited fate 
—is surely not merely innocent, but lauda- 
ble ; is not only propriety, but virtue. You 
have already as your auxiliary, the sober de- 
testation of mankind on the heads of your 
opponents; and I swear by the lyre of Thalia 
to muster on your side all the votaries ol 
honest laughter, and fair, candid ridicule ! 

I am extremely obliged to you for your 
kind mention of my interests in a letter 
which Mr. Syine showed me. At present 
my situation in life must be in a great mea- 
sure stationary, at least for two or three 
years. The statement is this — I am on the 
supervisors' list, and as we come on there by 
precedency, in two or three years I shall be 
at the head of that list, and be appointed 
of course. Then, a friend might be ol 
service to me in getting me into a place of 
the kingdom which I would like. A simer- 
visor's income varies from about a hundi cd 
and twenty to two hundred a-year ;' but the 
business is an incessant drudgery, and would 
be nearly a complete bar to every species of 
literary pursuit. The moment I am apjiointed 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



4bo 



e\.pervisor, in the common routine, I may be 
uorainated on the collector's list ; and this is 
always a business purely of political patron- 
age. A coUectorship varies much, from better 
than two hundred a-year to near a thousand. 
They also come forward by precedency on 
the list ; and have, besides a handsome in- 
come, a life of complete leisure. A life of 
literary leisure, with a decent competency, 
is the summit of my wishes. It would be 
the prudish affectation of silly pride in me 
to say that I do not need, or would not be 
indebted to, a political friend ; at the same 
time. Sir, I by no means lay my affairs before 
you thus, to hook my dependent situation 
on your benevolence. If, in my progress of 
hfe, an opening should occur where the good 
offices of a gentleman of your public charac- 
ter and political consequence might bring me 
forward, I shall petition your goodness with 
the same frankness as I now do myself the 
hououi to subscribe myself, B. B. 



NO. CCCXLVII. 



TO MISS FONTENELLE. 

Dumfries, 1795. 

Madam — ^In such a bad world as ours, 
those who add to the scanty sum of our 
pleasures are positively our benefactors. To 
you. Madam, on our humble Dumfries boards, 
I have been more indebted for entertainment 
than ever I was in prouder theatres. Your 
charms as a woman would ensure applause 
to the most indifferent actress, and your 
theatrical talents would ensure admiration to 
the plainest figure. This, Madam, is not the 
unmeaning or insidious compliment of the 
frivolous or interested ; I pay it from the 
same honest impulse that the sublime of 
nature excites my admiration, or her beauties 
give me delight. 

Will the foregoing lines (209) be of any 
service to you in your approaching benefit 
night ? If they will, I shall be prouder of 
my muse than ever. They are nearly ex- 
tempore : I know they have no great merit ; 
but though they should add but little to the 
entertainment of the evening, they give me 
the happiness of an opportunity to declare 
h3w much I have the honour to be, &c. 

R. B. 



NO. CCCXLVIII. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

You must not think, ray good Sir, that J. 
have any intention to enhance the value of 
my gift, when I say, in justice to the in- 
genious and worthy artist, that the design 
and execution of the "Cotter's Saturday 
Night " is, in my opinion, one of the happi- 
est productions of Allan's pencil. I shall 
be grievously disappointed if you are not 
quite pleased with it. 

The figure intended for your portrait, I 
think strikingly like you, as far as I can 
remember your phiz. This should make 
the piece interesting to your family every 
way. Tell me whether Jlrs. Burns finds 
you out among the figures. 

I cannot express the feeling of admiration 
with which I have read your pathetic " Ad- 
dress to the "Woodlark," your elegant pane- 
gyric on Caledonia, and your affecting verses 
on Chloris's illness. Every repeated perusal 
of these gives new delight. The other song 
to " Laddie, lie near me," though not equal 
to these, is very pleasing. 



KO. CCCXLIX. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. (210) 

Well ! this is not amiss. You see how 
I answer your orders — your tailor could not 
be more punctual. I am just now in a high 
fit for poetising, provided that the strait 
jacket of criticism don't cure me. If you 
can, in a post or two, administer a little of 
the intoxicating potion of your applause, it 
will raise your humble servant's frenzy to 
any height you want. I am at this moment 
" holding high converse " with the jMuses, 
and have not a word to throw away on such 
a Tjrosaic dog as you are. 



NO. CCCL. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

May, 1795. 

Ten thousand thanks for your elegant 
present — though I am ashamed of the value 
of it being bestowed on a man who ha-S not, 
by any means, merited such an instance of 
kiudness. I have shown it to two or tlncc 



38* 



43') 



CORKESPOXDENCE OF BURNS. 



judges of the first abilities here, and they 
nil agree with me in classing it as a first- 
rate production. My phiz is sae kenspeckle, 
tliat \he very joiner's apprentice, whom Mrs. 
Burns employed to break up the parcel (I 
was out of town that day), knew it at once. 
My most grateful compliments to Allan, 
who has honoured my rustic muse so much 
with his masterly pencil. One strange coin- 
cidence is, that the little one who is making 
the felonious attempt ou the cat's tail, is the 
most striking likeness of an ill-deedie, 
d — n'd, wee, rumble-gairie urchin of mine, 
whom, from that propensity to witty wicked- 
ness, and manfu' mischief, which, even at 
twa days' auld, I foresaw would form the 
striking features of his disposition, I named 
Willie Nicol, after a certain friend of mine, 
who is one of the masters of a grammar- 
school in a city which shall be nameless. 

Give the enclosed epigram to my 
much-valued friend Cunningham, and tell 
him, that oi Wednesday 1 go to visit a 
friend of his, to whom his friendly par- 
tiality in speaking of me, in a manner in- 
troduced me— I mean a well-known military 
and literary character. Colonel Dirom. 

You do not tell me how you liked my two 
last songs. Are they condemned ? 



NO. CCCLI. 



MR. THOMSON TO BURNS 

May I3th, 1795. 

It gives me great pleasure to find that 
yon are all so well satisfied with Mr. Allan's 
production. The chance resemblance of 
your little fellow, whose promising disposi- 
tion appeared so very early, and suggested 
whom he should be named after, is curious 
enough. I am acquainted with that person, 
who is a prodigy of learning and genius, and 
a pleasant fellow, though no saint. 

You really make me blush when you tell 
me you have not merited the drawing from 
me. 1 do not think I can ever repay you, 
or sufficiently esteem and respect you, for 
the liberal and kind manner in which you 
have entered into the spirit of my under- 
taking, which could not have been perfected 
\vithout you. So I beg you would not 
make a fool of me again by speaking of 
obligation. 

1 like your two last songs very much, and 



am happy to find you are in such a high fit 
of poetising. Long may it last ! Clarke 
has made a fine patlietic air to Mallet's 
superlative ballad of " William and Marga- 
ret," and is to give it to me, to be enrolled 
among the elect. 



NO. CCCLII. 

BURNS TO IMR. THOMSON. 

In " Whistle, and I'll come to ye, my 
lad," the iteration of that line is tiresome to 
my ear. Here goes what I think is aa 
improvement : — • 

" O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 
Oh whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 
Tho' father and mother and a' should gae 

mad. 
Thy Jeanie will venture wi' ye, my lad." 

In fact, a fair dame, at whose shrine I, 
the Priest of the Nine, offer up the incense 
of Parnassus — a darne whom the Graces 
have attired in witchcraft, and whom the 
Loves have armed with lightning — a fair 
one, herself the heroine of the song, insists 
on the amendment, and dispute her com- 
mands if you dare ! 

[//erf follows " This is no my ain lassie."'\ 

Do you know that you have roused the 
torpidity of Clarke at last? He has re- 
quested me to write three or four songs for 
him, which he is to set to music himself. 
The enclosed sheet contains two songs for 
him, which please to present to my valued 
friend Cunningham. 

I enclose the sheet open, both for your 
inspection, and that you may copy the song 
"Oh bonnie was yon rosy brier." I do not 
know whether I am right, but that song 
pleases me ; and as it is extremely probable 
that Clarke's newly-roused celestial spark 
will be soon smothered in the fogs of indo- 
lence, if you like the song, it may go as 
Scottish verses to the air of "I wish my 
love was in a mire ; " and poor Erskine's 
English lines may follow. 

I enclose jou a " For a' that and a' that," 
which was never in print ; it is a much 
superior song to mine. I have been told 
that it was composed by a lady. 

[Ilere follow the sowjs, " Now spring has 
clad the grove in green," and " bonnie was 
yon rosy briar." 



I 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



43J 



Written on the blank leaf of a copy of 
the last edition of my poems, presented to 
the lady whom, in so many fictitious reveries 
of passion, but with the most ardent senti- 
ments of real friendship, I have so often 
sunu: under the name of Chloris, is the fol- 
lowmg : — 

[" To Chlom."] 

CoiLA. 
Uiie bagatelle de I'amitie. 



NO. CCCLIII. 



MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Edinburgh, August 3rd, 1795. 

My Dear Sir — This will be delivered 
to you by a Dr. Brianton, who has read 
your works, and pants for the honour of 
your acquaintance. I do not know the 
gentleman ; but his friend, who applied to 
me for this introduction, being an excellent 
young man, I have no doubt he is worthy 
of all acceptation. 

My eyes have just been gladdened, and 
my mind feasted, with your last packet — 
full of pleasant things indeed. AVhat an 
imagination is yours ! — it is superfluous to 
tell you that I am delighted with all the 
tliree songs as well as with your elegant 
;ind tender verses to Chloris. 

1 am sorry you should be induced to alter 
" Oh whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad," 
to the prosaic line, "Thy Jeanie!*will venture 
wi* ye, my lad." I must be permitted to 
say, that I do not think the latter either 
reads or sings so well as the former. I wish, 
therefore, you would in my name petition 
the charming Jeanie, whoever she be, to let 
the line remain unaltered. 

I should he happy to see Mr. Clarke pro- 
duce a few airs to be joined to your verses. 
Everybody regrets his writing so very little, 
as everybody acknowledges his ability to 
write well. Pray was the resolution formed 
coolly before dinner, or was it a midnight 
von made over a bowl of punch with the 
bard? 

I shall not fail to give Mr. Cunningham 
what you have sent him. 

P.S.— The lady's "For a' that, and a' 
that," is sensible enough, but no more to be 
compared to yours than 1 to Hercules. 



NO. CCCLIV. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. (211) 

How do you like the foregoing ? I have 
writtten it within this hour : so much for 
the speed of my Pegasus ; but what say you 
to this bottom. 



NO. CCCLV. 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. (212) 

Such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of 
this air, that I find it impossible to make 
another stanza to suit it. 

I am at present quite occupied with the 
charming sensations of the toothache, so 
have not a word to spare. 



NO. CCCLVI. 



MR THOMSON TO BURNS. 

June 3rd, 1793. 

My Dear Sir — Your English verses to 
" Let me in this ane night," are tender and 
beautiful ; and your ballad to the " Lothian 
Lassie " is a master-piece for its humour and 
naivete. The fragment for the " Caledonian 
Hunt " is quite suited to the original 
measure of the air, and, as it plagues you 
so, the fragment must content it. 1 would 
rather, as 1 said before, have had bacchana- 
lian words, had it so pleased the poet ; but, 
nevertheless, for what we have received. 
Lord, make us thankful I 



NO. CCCLVII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

December loth, 1795. 

]\Iy Dear Friend — As I am in a com- 
plete Deceraberish humour, gloomy, sullen, 
stupid, as even the Deity of Dulness herself 
could wish, I shall not drawl out a heavy 
letter with a number of heavier apologies 
for my late silence. Only one I shall men- 
tion, because 1 know you will sympathise in 
it : these four months, a sweet little girl, 
my youngest child, has been so ill, that every 
day, a week or less threatened to terminate 
her existence. There had much need be 



438 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



many pleasures annexed to the states of 
husband and father, for, God knows, they 
have many pecuHar cares. I cannot describe 
to you the anxious, sleepless hours these 
ties frequently give me. 1 see a train of 
helpless little folks; myself and my exertions 
all their stay ; and on what a brittle thread 
does the life of man lianj; ! If I am nipt 
off at the command of fate, even in all the 
vigour of manhood, as 1 am — such things 
happen every day — Gracious God! what 
would become of my little flock ! 'Tis here 
that I envy your people of fortune. A 
father on his death-bed, taking an ever- 
lasting leave of his children, has indeed 
woe enough ; but the man of competent 
fortune leaves his sons and daughters 
independency and friends; while I — but I 
shall run distracted if I think any longer on 
the subject ! 

To leave talking of the matter so gravely, 
I shall sing with the old Scots ballad — 

*' Oh that I had ne'er been married, 

I would never had nae care : 

Now I've gotten wife and bairns. 

They cry crowdie evermair. 

Crowdie ance, crowdie twice, 
Crowdie three times in a day: 

An ye crowdie ony mair. 

Ye '11 crowdie a' my meal away." 

December 2ith. 

We have had a brilliant theatre here this 
season ; only, as all other business does, it 
experiences a stagnation of trade from the 
epidemical complaint of the country, tuant of 
cash. I mentioned our theatre merely to 
lug in an occasional Address, which I wrote 
for the benefit night of one of the actresses, 
and which is as follows : — » » * 

25th, Christmas Morning. 

This, my much-loved friend, is a morning 
of wishes ; accept mine — so Heaven hear 
me as they are sincere ! — that blessings may 
attend your steps, and affliction know you 
not 1 In the charming words of my favourite 
author. The Man of Feeling, "May the 
Great Spirit bear up the weight of thy grey 
hairs, and blunt the arrow that brings them 
rest ! " 

Now that I talk of authors, how do you 
like Cowper? Is not the "Task" a glorious 
poem ? The religion of the " Task," bating 
a few scraps of Calvanistic divinity, is the 
religion of God and Nature — the religion 
that exalts, that ennobles man. Were not 
you to send me your " Zeluco," in return for 
ranieV 'i'ell me how you like my marks and 



notes through the book. I would not give a 
farthing for a book, unless I were at liberty 
to blot it with my criticisms. 

I have lately collected, for a friend's peru- 
sal, all my letters ; I mean those which I 
first sketched, in a rough draught, and after- 
wards wrote out fair. On looking over some 
oil! musty papers, which from time to time 
I had parcelled by, as trash that were scarce 
worth preserving, and which yet, at the same 
time, I did not care to destroy, I discovered 
many of these rude sketches, and have 
written, and am writing them out, in a bound 
MS. for my friend's library. As I wrote 
always to you the rhapsody of the moment, 
I cannot find a single scroll to you, except 
one, about the commencement of our ac- 
quaintance. If there were any possible con- 
veyance, I would send you a perusal of 
my book. R. B. 



NO. CCCLVm. 

TO MR. ALEXANDER FINDLATER 
(213), 

SUPERVISOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES. 

Sir — Enclosed are the two schemes. I 
would not have troubled you with the col- 
lector's one, but for suspicion lest it be not 
right. IMr. Erskine promised me to make it 
right, if you will have the goodness to show 
him how. As I have no copy of the scheme 
for myself, and the alterations being very 
considerable from what it was formerly, I 
hope that I shall have access to this scheme 
I send you, when I come to face up my new 
books. So much for schemes. And that no 
scheme to betray a friknd, or mislead a 
stranger; to seduce a young girl, or 
rob a iien-roost; to subvert liberty, or 
bribe an exciseman; to disturb the 
GENERAL ASSEMBLY, or anuoy a gossip- 
ping ; to overthrow the credit of ortho- 
doxy, or the authority of old songs ; to 
oppose your tvishes, or frustrate 7ny hopes, — 
MAY prosper — is the sincere wish and 
prayer of R. B. 



NO. CCCLIX. 



TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING 
CHRONICLE. 

Dumfries, 1795. 

Sir — ^You will see, by your subscribers' 
list, th?-t I have been about jine months of 
that number. 



TO MES. DUNLOP. 



439 



I am sorry to inform yon that in that time 
seven or eight of your papers either have 
never been sent me, or else have never 
reached me. To be dejjrived of any one 
uuraber of the first newspaper in Great 
Britain for information, ability, and inde- 
pendence, is what I can ill brook and bear ; 
but to be deprived of that most admirable 
oration of the Marquis of Lausdowne, when 
he made the great, though ineffectual at- 
tempt (in the language of the poet, I fear 
too true) "to save a sinking state "-- 
this was a loss that I neither can, nor will 
forgive you. That paper. Sir, never reached 
me; but I demand it of you. lamaBRiTON, 
and must be interested in the cause of 
liberty; I am a man, and the rights 
OF HUMAN NATURE Cannot be indifferent to 
me. However, do not let me mislead you — 
I am not a man in that situation of hfe, 
wluL-h, as your subscriber, can be of any 
CDusequeuce to you, in the eyes of those to 

W.lOUl SITUATION OF LIFE ALONE is the 

criterion of man. I am but a plain trades- 
niui, in this distant, obscure country town; 
b It, that humble domicile in which 1 shelter 
my wife and children, is the Castellum of 
a Briton; and that scanty, hard-earned 
irtcome which supports them, is as truly my 
property, as the most magnificent fortune of 
the most puissant member of your house 
OF nobles. 

These, Sir, are my sentiments, and to 
them I subscribe my name ; and were I a 
man of ability and consequence enough to 
address the PUBLIC, with that name should 
they appear. I am, &c. (214) 



NO. CCCLX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

IN LONDON. 

Dumfries, 20th Deceinbcr, 1795. 

I HAVE been prodigiously disappointed in 
this London journey of yours. In the first 
place, when your last to me reached Dum- 
fries, 1 was in the country, and did not 
return until too late to answer your letter ; 
in the ne\t place, I thought you would cer- 
tainly take tins route ; and now 1 know not 
what is become of you, or whether this may 
reach you at all. God grant that it may 
find you and yours in prospering health and 
good spirits ! Do let me hear from you the 
soonest possible. 



As I hope to get a frank from my friend 
Captain iMiUer, I shall, every leisure hour, 
take up the pen, and gossip away whatever 
comes first, prose or poetry, sermon or song. 
In this last article I have abounded of late. 
1 have often mentioned to you a superb pub- 
lication of Scottish songs, which is making 
its appearance in your great metropolis, and 
where I have the honour to preside over the 
Scottish verse, as no less a personage than 
Peter Pindar does over the English. 

December 29th. 

Since I began this letter, 1 have been ap- 
pointed to act in the capacity of supervisor 
here, and I assure you, what with the load 
of business, and what with that business 
being new to me, I could scarcely have com- 
manded ten minutes to have spoken to you, 
had you been in town, much less to have 
written you an epistle. This appointment 
is only temporary, and during the illness of 
the present incumbent ; but 1 look forward 
to an early period w^hen I shall be appointed 
in full form — a consummation devoutly to be 
wished ! My political sins seem to be for 
given me. 

This is the season (New-year's-day is now 
my date) of wishes; and mine are most 
fervently offered up for yon ! May life to 
you be a positive blessing while it lasts, for 
your own sake; and that it may yet be 
greatly prolonged, is my wish for my own 
sake, and for the sake of the rest of your 
friends ! What a transient business is hfe? 
Very lately I was a boy ; but t'other day I 
was a young man ; and I already begin to 
feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints of 
old age coming fast o'er ray frame. With 
all my follies of youth, and 1 fear, a few 
vices of manhood, still I congratulate myself 
on having had, in early days, religion strongly 
impressed on my mind. 1 have nothing to 
say to any one as to which sect he belongs 
to, or what creed he believes ; but I look on 
the man who is firmly persuaded of infinite 
wisdom and goodness superintending and 
directing every circumstance that can happen 
in his lot — I felicitate such a man as having 
a solid foundation for his mental enjoyment 
— a firm prop and sure stay in the hour of 
ditticulty, trouble, and distress — and a never- 
failing anchor of hope, when he looks beyond 
the grave. 

January 12th. 

You will have seen our worthy and inge- 
nious friend, the doctor, long ere this. I 
hope he is well, and beg to be remembered 
to him. 1 have just been reading over again, 



440 



COERESPONDENCE OP BURNS. 



I dare say for the hundred and fiftieth time, 
his View of Society and Manners ; and still 
I read it with delight. His humour is per- 
fectly original — it is neither the humour of 
Addison, nor Swift, nor Sterne, nor of any- 
body but Dr. Moore. By the bye, you have 
deprived me of Zeluco; remember that, when 
you are disposed to rake up the sins of my 
neglect from among the ashes of my laziness. 
He has paid me a pretty compliment, by 
quoting me in his last publication (215). 
R. B. 



NO. CCCLXI. 



ADDRESS OF THE SCOTCH 
DISTILLERS 

TO THE EIGHT HON. WILLIAM PITT. 

Sir — While pursy burgesses crowd your 
gate, sweating under tlie weight of heavy 
addresses, permit us, the quondam distillers 
in that part of Great Britain called Scotland, 
to approach you, not with venal approbation, 
but with fraternal condolence ; not as what 
you are just now, or for some time have been, 
but as what, in all probability, you will 
shortly be. We shall have the merit of not 
deserting our friends in the day of their 
calamity, and you will have the satisfaction 
of perusing, at least, one honest address. 
You are well acquainted with the dissection 
of human nature ; nor do you need the 
assistance of a fellow-creature's bosom to 
inform you, that man is always a selfish, 
often a perfidious being. This assertion, 
however the hasty conclusions of superficial 
observation may doubt of it, or the raw inex- 
perience of youth may deny it, those who 
make the fatal experiment we have done, 
will feel. You are a statesman, and conse- 
quently are not ignorant of the traffic of 
these corporation compliments. The little 
great man who drives the borough to market, 
and the very great man who buys the borough 
in that market, they two do the whole busi- 
ness ; and you well know, they, likewise, 
have their price. With that sullen disdain 
which you can so well assume, rise illustrious 
Sir, and spurn these hireling efforts of venal 
stupidity. At best they are the compliments 
of a man's friends on the morning of his 
execution : they take a decent farewell : 
resign you to your fate ; and hurry away 
from your approaching hour. 



If fame say true, and omens be not very 
much mistaken, you are about to make yjur 
exit from that world where the sun of glad- 
uess gilds the paths of prosperous men : 
permit us, great Sir, with the sympathy of 
fellow-feeling, to hail your passage to the 
realms of ruin. 

Whether the sentiment proceed from the 
selfishness or cowardice of mankind, is imma- 
terial ; but to point out to a child of misfor- 
tune those who are still more unhappy, is to 
give him some degree of positive enjoyment. 
In this light. Sir, our downfall may be again 
useful to you : though not exactly in the 
same way, it is not, perhaps, the first time 
it has gratified your feelings. It is true, 
the triumph of your evil star is exceedingly 
despiteful. At an age when others are the 
votaries of pleasure, or underlings in business, 
you had attained the highest wish of a 
British statesman ; and with the ordinary 
date of human life, what a prospect was 
before you! Deeply rooted ni royal favour, 
you overshadowed the land. The birds of 
passage which follow ministerial sunshine 
through every clime of political faith and 
manners, flocked to your branches ; and the 
beasts of the field (the lordly possessors of 
hills and valleys) crowded under your shade. 
" But behold a watcher, a holy one, came 
down from heaven, and ciied aloud, and said 
thus : Hew down the tree, and cut off his 
branches ; shake off his leaves, and scatter 
his fruit; let the beasts get away from under 
it, and the fowls from his branches ! " A 
blow from an unthought-of quarter, one of 
those terrible accidents which peculiarly 
mark the hand of Omnipotence, overset your 
career, and laid all your fancied honours in 
the du5t. But turn your eyes. Sir, to the 
tragic scenes of our fate. An ancient nation, 
that for many ages had gallantly maintained 
the unequal struggle for independence with 
her much more powerful neighbour, at last 
agrees to a union which should ever after 
make them one people. In consideration of 
certain circumstances, it was covenanted that 
the former should enjoy a stipulated allevia- 
tion in her share of the public burdens, 
particularly in that branch of tlie revenue 
called the Excise. This just privilege has of 
late given great umbrage to some interested, 
powerful individuals of the more potent part 
of the empire, and they have spared no 
wicked pains, under insidious pretexts, to 
subvert what they dared not openly to attack, 
from the dread which they yet entertained 
of the spirit of their ancient enemies. 

In this conspiracy we fell; nor did wa 
alone suffer — our couutry was deeply 



TO SIRS. DUNLOP. 



441 



\rotinded. A number of (we will say) 
respectable individuals, largely engaged in 
trade, where we were not only useful, but 
absolutely necessary, to our country in her 
dearest interests ; we, with all that was near 
and dear to us, were sacrificed, without 
remorse, to the infernal deity of political ex- 
jiediency ! We fell to gratify the wishes of 
dark envy, and the views of unprincipled 
ambition ! Your foes, Sir, were avowed ; 
were too brave to take an ungenerous advan- 
tage : you fell in the face of day. On the 
contrary, our enemies, to complete our over- 
thpow, contrived to make their guilt appear 
the villany of a nation. Your downfall only 
drags with you your private friends and 
partisans : in our misery are more or less 
involved the most numerous and most valu- 
able part of the community — all those who 
immediately depend on the cultivation of 
the soil, from the landlord of a province 
down to his lowest hind. 

Allow us. Sir, yet further, just to hint at 
another rich vein of comfort in the dreary 
regions of adversity — the gratulations of an 
approving conscience. In a certain great 
assembl}', of which you are a distinguished 
member, panegyrics on your private virtues 
have so often wounded your delicacy, that, 
we shall not distress you with anything on 
the subject. There is, however, one part of 
your public conduct which our feelings will 
not permit us to pass in silence ; our grati- 
tude must trespass on your modesty : we 
mean, worthy Sir, your whole behaviour to 
the Scots distillers. In evil hours, when 
obtrusive recollection presses bitterly on the 
sense, let that. Sir, come, like a healing angel, 
and speak the peace to your soul which the 
world can neither give nor take away. We 
have the honour to be. Sir, your sympa- 
thising fellow-sufferers and grateful humble 
servants, 

John Barleycorn, Praeses. 



NO. CCCLXII. 



'lO THE HON. THE PROVOST, 
H ATTTES, AND TO\VN COUNCIL OP 
DUMFKIEii 

Gkntlemen — The literary taste and 
liberal spirit of your good town has so ably 
filled the various departments of your 
schools, as to make it a very great object for 
a parent to have his children educated in 
them. Still, to me, a stranger, with my 



large family, and very stinted income, to 
give my young ones that education 1 wish, 
at the high-school fees wh'ch a stranger pay?, 
will bear hard upon me. 

Some years ago your good town did me 
the honour of making me an honorary bur- 
gess. Will you allow me to request that 
this mark of distinction may extend so far 
as to put me on a footing of a real freeman 
of the town, in the schools ? 

If you are so very kind as tc grant my 
request, it will certainly be a constant incen- 
tive to me to strain every nerve where 1 can 
officially serve you ; and will, if possible, 
increase that grateful respect with which I 
have the honour to be, gentlemen, your 
devoted, humble servant, R. B. (216J 



KO. CCCLXIII. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 
Dumfries, January 20ik, 1796. 

I CANNOT express my gratitude to you 
for allowing me a longer perusal of " Ana- 
charsis." In fact, I never met with a book 
that bewitched me so much ; and I, as a 
member of the library, must warmly feel 
the obligation you have laid us under. 
Indeed, to me the obligation is stronger than 
to any other individual of our society ; as 
" Anacharsis" is an indispensable desideratum 
to a son of the muses. 

The health you wished me in your morn- 
ing's card, is, I think, flown from me for 
ever. I have not been able to leave my bed 
to-day till about an hour ago. These 
wickedly unlucky advertisements I lent (I did 
wrong) to a friend, and I am ill able to go 
in quest of him. 

The muses have not quite forsaken rae. 
The following detached stanzas I intend to 
interweave in some disastrous tale of a 
sheoherd. R- B. 



NO. CCCLXIV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, January 31st, 1706. 

These many months you have been two 

packets in my debt — what sin of ignorance 

I have committed against so highly valued 

a friend, I am utterly at a loss to guess. 



442 



COKEESrONDENCE OF BURNS. 



Alas ! ]\Iadam, ill can I afford, at this time, 
to be deprived of any of the small remnant 
of my pleasures. I have lately drunk deep 
of the cup of affliction. The autumn robbed 
me of my only daughter and darling child 
(217), and that at a distance, too, and so 
rapidly, as to put it out of my power to pay 
the last duties to her. I had scarcely begun 
to recover from that shock, when I became 
myself the victim of a most severe rheumatic 
fever, and long the die spun doubtful; until, 
after many weeks of a sick-bed, it seems to 
ha\ e turned up life, and I am beginning to 
crawl across my room, and once, indeed, 
liave been before my own door in the street. 

When pleasure fascinates the mental sight. 
Affliction purities the visual ray. 

Religion hails the drear, the untried night. 
And shuts, for ever shuts ! life's doubtful 
day. R. B. 



NO. CCCLXV. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Felmary 5th, 1796. 

On Robby Burns, are ye sleeping yet? 

Or are ye w auking, I would wit ? 

The pause you have made, my dear Sir, 
is awful ! Am I never to hear from you 
again? I know, and I lament how much 
you have been afflicted of late ; but I trust 
that returning health and spirits will now 
enaljle you to resume the pen, and delight 
us with your musings. I have still about a 
dozen Scotch and Irish airs that I wish 
" married to immortal verse." We have 
several true-born Irishmen on the Scottish 
list ; but they are now naturalized, and 
reckoned our own good subjects. Indeed, 
we have none better. I believe I before told 
you that I have been much urged by some 
friends to publish a collection of all our 
favourite airs and songs in octavo, embel- 
lished with a number of etchings by our 
ingenious friend Allan ; what is your opinion 
of this ? 



NO. CCCLXVl. 

liURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

February, 1796. 

Many thanks, my dear Sir, for your hand- 
mc, elegant present to Mrs. Burns, and 



for my remaining volume of P. Pin lur, 
Peter is a delightful fellow, and a fi'st f.iVou- 
rite of mine. I am much pleased with ynar 
idea of publishing a collection of our songs 
in octavo with etchings. I am extremely 
willing to lend every assistance in my power. 
Tiie Irish airs I shall cheerfully undertake 
the task of finding verses for. 

I have already, you know, equipt three 
with words, and the other day I strung up a 
kind of rhapsody to another Hibernian 
melody, which I admire much. 

[Here follows " Hey for a lass wi' a tocher."'] 

If this will do, you have now four of my 
Irish engagement. In my by-past songs I 
dislike one thing; the name Chloris — I 
meant it as the fictitious name of a certain 
lady : but, on second thoughts, it is a high 
incongruity to have a Greek appellation to a 
Scottish pastoral ballad. Of this, and some 
things else, in my next : I have more amend- 
ments to propose. What you once men- 
tioned of " flaxen locks " is just • they 
cannot enter into an elegant description of 
beauty. Of this also again — God blesa 
you ! (218). 



NO. CCCLXVII. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

Your "Hey for a lass wi' a tocher" is a 
most excellent song, and with you the 
subject is something new indeed. It is tho 
first time I have seen you debasing the god 
of soft desire into an amateur of acres and 
guineas. 

I am happy to find you approve of my 
proposed octavo edition. Allan has designed 
and etched about twenty plates, and I am to 
have my choice of them for that worL 
Independently of the Hogarthian humour 
with which they abound, they exhibit the 
character and costume of the Scottish pea- 
santry with inimitable felicity. In tliis 
respect, he himself says, they will far exceed 
the aquatinta plates he did for the Gentle 
Shepherd, because in the etching he sees 
clearly what he is doing, but not so with the 
aquatinta, which he could not manage to his 
mind. 

The Dutch boors of Ostade are scarcely 
more characteristic and natural than the 
Scottish figures in those etchings.-- 



i 

H 



BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



443 



NO. CCCLXVIII. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

April, 1796. 

Alas ! my dear Tliorason, I fear it will 
be some time ere I tune my lyre again ! 
" By Babel streams I have sat and wept " 
almost eve- since 1 wrote you last ; I have 
only known existence by the pressure of the 
heavy hand of sickness, and have counted 
time by the repercussions of pain ! Rheu- 
matism, cold and fever, have formed to me 
a terible combination. I close my eyes in 
misery, and open them without hope. I 
look on the vernal day, and say with poor 
Fergusson, 

Say wherefore has an all-indulgent heaven 
Light to the comfortless and wretched given? 

Tliis will be delivered to you by a Mrs. 
Hyslop, landlady of the Globe Tavern here, 
which for these many years has been my 
house, and where our friend Clarke and I 
have had many a merry squeeze. I am 
highly delighted with Mr. Allan's etchings. 
" Woo'd an' married an' a'," is admirable ! 
The grouping is beyond all praise. The 
expression of the figures, conformable to the 
story in the ballad, is absolutely faultless 
perfection. I next admire " Turnimspike." 
What I like least is " Jenny said to Jocky," 
Besides the female being in her appearance 
•****, if you take her stooping into the 
account, she is at least two inches taller 
than her lover. Poor Cleghorn ! I 
sincerely sympathise with him. Happy I 
am to think that he yet has a well-grounded 
hope of health and enjoyment in this world. 
As for me — but that is a sad subject 1 



NO. CCCLXIX. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

May 4lh, 1796. 

I NEED not tell you, my good Sir, what 
concern the receipt of your last gave me, 
and how much I sympathise in your suffer- 
ings. But do not, I beseech you, give 
yourself up to despondency, or speak the 
language of despair. Tiie vigour of your 
constitution, I trust, will soon set you on 
your feet again ; and then, it is to be lioped, 
you will see the wisdom and the necessity 
of taking due care of a life so valuable to 



your family, to your friends, and to the 
world. 

Trusting that your next will biing 
agreeable accounts of your convalescence 
and returning good spirits, I remain, with 
sincere regard, yours. 

P. S. Mrs. Hyslop, I doubt not, delivered 
the gold seal to you in good condition. 



NO. CCCLXX. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

My dhar Sir — I once mentioned to 
you an air which I have long admired — 
" Here's a health to them that's awa, hiiiey," 
but I forget if you took any notice of it. I 
have just beeu trying to suit it with verses, 
and I beg leave to recommend the air to 
your attention once more. I have only 
begun it. 

[Here follow the three first stanzas of the 
Sony : the fourth was found among his MSS. 
after his death.'] 



NO. CCCLXXI. 

BURNS TO MR. TH0:MS0N. 

This will be delivered by a Mr. Lewars, 
a young fellow of uncommon merit. As he 
will be a day or two in town, you will have 
leisure, if you choose, to write me by him : 
and if you have a spare half hour to spend 
with him, I shall place your kindness to my 
account. 1 have no copies of the songs I 
have sent you, and I have taken a fancy to 
review them all, and possibly may mend 
some of them : so, when you have complete 
leisure, I will thank you for either the 
originals or copies. (219) I had rather be 
the author of live well-written songs than of 
ten otherwise. 1 have great hopes that the 
genial influence of the approaching summer 
will set me to rights, but as yet I cannot 
I .ii-i (if rfturiiiiig health. I have now rea- 
-ini 1(1 bflieve that my complaint is a flying 
gout — a siiii business ! 

Do let me know how Gleghorn is, and 
remember me to him. 

This should have been delivered to you a 
month ago. I am still very poorly, but 
sliould like much to hear from you. 

39 



444 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



NO. CCCLXXIl. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL, 

WUO HAD DESIRED HIM TO GO TO THE BIKTHDAY 

ASSEMBLY, ON THAT DAV, TO SHOW HIS 

LOYALTY. 

Dumfries, June Atk, 1796. 

I AM in such miserable health as to be 
utterly incapable of showing my loyalty in 
any way. Racked as I am with rheumatism, 
1 meet every face with a greeting, like that 
of Balak — " Come, curse me, Jacob ; and 
come, defy me, Israel ! " So say I — Come, 
curse me that east wind ; and come, defy 
me the north ! Would you have me in such 
circumstances copy you out a love- song! 

I may, perhaps, see you on Saturday, but 
I will not be at the ball. Why should I ? — 
" man delights not me, nor woman either 1 " 
Can you supply me with the song, " Let us 
all be unhappy together" — do if you can, 
and oblige le pauvre miserable, R. B. 



NO. CCCLXXIIl. 

TO MR. CLARKE, 

SCHOOLMASTER, FORFAR. 

Dumfries, June 26tk, 1796. 

My Dear Clarke — Still, the victim of 
affliction ! Were you to see the emaciated 
figure who now holds the pen to you, you 
would not know your old friend. Whether 
I shall ever get about again, is only known 
to Him, the Great Unknown, whose creature 
I am. Alas, Clarke ! I begin to fear the 
worst. As to my individual self, I am tran- 
quil, and would despise myself if I were not; 
but Burns's poor widow, and half-a-dozeu 
of his dear little ones — helpless orphans !^ 
there I am weak, as a woman's tear. 
Enough of this ! 'Tis half of my disease. 

I duly received your last, enclosing the 
note. It came extremely in time, and I am 
much obliged by your punctuality. Again 
I must request you to do me the same kind- 
ness. Be so very good as, by return of 
post, to enclose me another note. I trust 
you can do it without inconvenience, and it 
will seriously oblige me. If I must go, I 
shall leave a few friends behind me, whom 
j[ shall regret while consciousness remains. 
I know I shall live in their remembrance. 
Adieu, dear Clarke. That I shall ever see 
Mill again, is, 1 am afraid, highly improbable. 
R. B. 



NO. CCCLXXIV. 

TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON, 

EDINBURGH. 

Dumfries, July Ath, 1796. 

How are you, my dear friend, and how 
comes on your fifth volume ! You nuiy 
probably think that for some time past 1 
have neglected you and your work ; but, 
alas ! the hand of pain, and sorrow, and 
care, has these many months lain heavy on 
me. Personal and domestic affliction have 
almost entirely banished that alacrity and 
life with which I used to woo the rural muse 
of Scotia. 

You are a good, worthy, honest fellow, 
and have a good right to live in this world 
— because you deserve it. Many a merry 
meeting this publication has given us, and 
possibly it may give us more, though, alas ! 
I fear it. This protracting, slow, cousuming 
illness which hangs over me, will, I doubt 
much, my ever dear friend, arrest my sun 
before he has well reached his middle career, 
and will turn over the poet to far more im- 
portant concerns than studying the brilliancy 
of wit, or the pathos of sentiment. How- 
ever, hope is the cordial of the human heart 
and I endeavour to cherish it as well as I 
can. 

Let me hear from you as soon as con- 
venient. Your work is a great one ; and 
now that it is finished, I see, if we were to 
begin again, two or three things that might 
be mended ; yet I will venture to prophesy, 
that to future ages your publication will be 
the text-book and standard of Scottish song 
and music. 

I am ashamed to ask another favour of 
you, because you have been so very good 
already ; but my wife has a very particular 
friend of hers, a young lady who slugs well, 
to whom she wishes to present the " Scots 
Musical Museum." If you have a spare 
copy, will you be so obliging as to send it 
by the very first fly, as 1 am anxious ta 
have it soon. (220,) Yours ever, 

R. B. 



NO. CCCLXXV. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Brow, Sea-lathing Quarters, 
July 7th, 1796. ■ 

My Dear Cunnixgham — I received 
yours here this morning, and am indeed 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



445 



highly flattered with the approbation of the 
hterary circle you mention — a literary circle 
inferior to none in the two kingdoms. Alas ! 
my friend, I fear the voice of the bard will 
soon be heard among you no more. For 
these eight or ten months I have been ailing, 
sometimes bedfast, and sometimes not ; but 
these last three months I have been tortured 
with an excruciating rheumatism, which has 
reduced me to nearly the last stage. You 
actually would not know me if you saw me. 
Pale, emaciated, and so feeble, as occasionally 
to need help from the chair — my spirits 
fled ! fled ! — but I can no more on the sub- 
ject ; only the medical folks tell me that my 
last and only chance is bathing, and country 
quarters and riding. The deuce of the 
matter is this ; when an exciseman is off 
duty, his salary is reduced to £35 instead 
of £50. What way, in the name of thrift, 
shall I maintain myself, and keep a horse in 
country quarters, with a wife, and five chil- 
dren at home, on £35 ? I mention this, 
because I had intended to beg your utmost 
interest, and that of all the friends you 
can muster, to move our commissioners of 
Excise to grant me the full salary ; I dare 
say you know them all personally. If they 
do not grant it me (221), I must lay my 
account with an exit truly en poete — if 
I die not of disease, I must perish with 
hunger. 

I have sent you one of the songs ; the 
other my memory does not serve me with, 
and 1 have no copy here; but I shall be at 
home soon, when 1 will send it you. A-propos 
to being at home, — ^Mrs. Burns threatens in 
week or or two to add one more to my 
paternal charge, which, if of the right 
gender, I intend shall be introduced to the 
world by the respectable designation of 
Alexander Cunninrjham Burns. My last was 
James Glencairn, so you can have no 
objection to the company of nobility. 
Farewell. R. B. 



NO. CCCLXXVI. 

TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Juli/ lOtli, 1796. 

Dear Brother — It will be no very 
pleasing news to you to be told that I am 
dangerously ill, and not likely to get better. 
An inveterate rheumatism has reduced me 
to such a state of debility, and my appetite 
M 80 totally gone, that I can scarcely stand 



on my legs. I have been a week at sea- 
bathing, and I will continue there, or in a 
friend's house in the country, all the sum- 
mer. God keep my wife and children : if I 
am taken from their head, they will be poor 
indeed. I have contracted one or two 
serious debts, partly from my illness these 
many months, partly from too much thought- 
lessness as to expense when I came to town, 
that will cut m too much on the little I 
leave them in your hands. Remember me 
to my mother. Yours, R, B. 



NO. CCCLXXVII. 

TO MRS. BURNS. 

Brow, Thursday. 

My Dearest Love — I delayed writing 
until I could tell you what effect sea-bathing 
was likely to produce. It would be injustice 
to deny that it has eased my pains, and I 
think has strengthened me ; but my appetite 
is still extremely bad. No flesh nor fish 
can I swallow : porridge and milk are the 
only thing I can taste. I am very happy 
to hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you are 
all well. My very best and kindest com- 
pliments to her, and to all the children. I 
will see you on Sunday, Your affectionate 
husband, R. B. 



no. CCCLXXVIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Brotv, Saturday, July \2tli, 1796. 

Madam — I have written you so often, 
without receiving any answer, that I would 
not trouble you again, but for the circumstan- 
ces in which I am. An illness which has long 
hung about me, in all probability will 
speedily send me beyond that hourne whence 
no traveller returns. Your friendship, with 
which for many years you honoured me, 
was a friendship dearest to my soul. Your 
conversation, and especially your corres- 
pondence, were at once highly entertaining 
and instructive. With what pleasure did I 
use to break up the seal ! The remem- 
brance yet adds one pulse more to my 
poor palpitating heart. Farewell ! ! ! 

R. B. (222) 



410 



CORRESPONDENCE OP BURNS. 



NO. CCCLXXIX. 

TO MR. JAMES BURNESS. 

WKITER, MONTROSE. 

Dumfries, July \2th, 1796. 

My dear Cousin — When you offered 
me money assistance, little did I think I 
should want it so soon. A rascal of a 
haberdasher, to whom I owe a considerable 
bill, taking it into his head that I am dying-, 
has commenced a process against me, and 
will infallibly put my emaciated body into 
jail. W\\\ you be so good as to accommodate 
me, and that by return of post, with ten 
pounds ? Oh, James I did you know the 
pride of my heart, you would feel doubly for 
me ! Alas I I am not used to beg. The 
worst of it is, my health was coming about 
finel}', you know ; and my physician assured 
me, that melancholy and low spirits are half 
my disease : — guess, then, my horrors since 
this business began. If I had it settled, I 
would be, I think, quite well in a manner, 
flow shall I use the language to you, — oh do 
not disappoint me ! — but strong necessity's 
curst command. 

I have been thinking over and over my 
brother's affairs, and I fear I must cut him 
up ; but on this I will correspond at another 
time, particularly as I shall [require] your 
advice. 

Forgive me for once more mentioning by 
return of post : — save me from the horrors of 
a jail! (223) 

My compliments to my friend James, and 
to all the rest. I do not know what I have 
written. The subject is so horrible, I dare 
not look it ever agaia. Farewell 1 

R. B. 



NO CCCLXXX. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Brow, on the Solway-frith, 

July Uth, 1796. 

After all my boasted independence, curst 
necessity compels me to implore you for five 
pounds. A cruel wretch of a haberdasher, 
to whom I owe an account, taking it into his 
head that I am dying, has commenced a 
process, and will infallibly put me into jail. 
Do for God's sake, send me that sum, and 
that by return of post. Forgive me this 



earnestness, but the horrors of a jail have 
made me half distracted. I do not ask all 
this gratuitously ; for, upon returning healtli, 
I hereby promise and engage to furnish you 
with five pounds' worth of the neatest song- 
genius you have seen. I tried my hand on 
" Rotlieimurche " this morning. The mea- 
sure is so difficult that it is impossible to 
infuse much genius into the lines; they are 
ou the other side. Forgive, forgive me ! (224) 



NO CCCLXXXI. 

MR. THOMSON TO BURNS. 

July Uth, 1796. 

My dear Sir — Ever since I received 
your melancholy letters by Mrs. Ilyslop, I 
have been ruminating in what manner I 
could endeavour to alleviate your sufferings. 
Again and again I thought of a pecuniary 
offer, but the recollection of one of your 
letters on this subject, and the fear of offend- 
ing your independent spirit, checked my 
resolution. I thank you heartily, therefore, 
for the frankness of your letter of the 12th, 
and, with great pleasure, enclose a draft for 
the very sum I proposed sending (225). 
Would I were Chancellor of the Exchequer 
but for one day, for your sake I 

Pray, my good Sir, is it not possible for 
you to ^muster a volume of poetry? If too 
much trouble to you, in the present state of 
your health, some literary friend might be 
found here, who would select and arrange 
from your manuscripts, and take upon him 
the task of editor. In the meaniime, it 
could be advertised to be published by sub- 
scription. Do not shun this mode of obtain- 
ing the value of your labour : remember. 
Pope published the Iliad by subscription. 
Think of this, my dear Burns, and do not 
reckon me intrusive with my advice. You 
are too well convinced of the respect and 
friendship I bear your to impute anything I 
say to an unworthy motive. Yours faith- 
fully. 

The verses to " Rothermurche " will 
answer finely. I am happy to see you can 
still tune your lyre. 



TO JAMES ARMOUR. 



447 



NO. CCCLXXXIl. 

TO JAMES GRACIE, Esq. 

Brow, Wednesday morning, 
July ]6th, 1796. 

AIy Di:ar Sir — It would be do'ng 
hipfh injustice to this place not to ackuow- 
lei^e that my rheumatism has derived great 
benefits from it already ; but, alas ! my 
loss of appetite still continues. I shall not 
need your kind offer this week (226), and I 
\ ^turn to town the beginning of next week, 
it not being a tide week. I am detaining a 
man io n buruing hurry. So, God bless 
you ! 

KB. 
39 



NO. CCCLXXXIII. 

TO JAMES ARMOUR (227), 

MASON, MAUCHLINE. 

Dumfries, July, 18th, 1796. 

My Dear Sir — Do, for Heaven's sake, 
send Mrs. .\rmour here immediately. My 
wife is hourly expecting to be put to bed 
Good God! what a situation for her to be 
in, poor girl, without a friend ! I returned 
from sea-bathing quarters to-day, and my 
medical friends would ahnost persnaile me 
that I am better, but I think and feel thai 
my strength is so gone, that the disorde: 
will prove fatal to me. Your son-in-law, 
R. B. (2'.J8) 




I^ote 



TX) |i}>i Ui'E. I'OEMS, CORKESPONDENCE, &c_ &«, 
OP BURNS 



]MtB ta tjie life nf Snrns, 



Page 4, Note 1. — ^To account for the 
co-existence of a taste for dancing, music, 
and song, with the austere religious feehngs 
above descril)ed, we must bear in mind that 
the latter are not of such long standin;^, 
having only existed in great force since the 
time of the civil wars. It is also to be observed, 
that those tastes and those feelings did not 
always possess the same minds. Throughout 
the most rigid times, the young formed a 
party whom the promptings of nature com- 
pelled to favour mirthful recreation and the 
productions of the muse, all preachings 
from the old notwithstanding. Then the 
Episcopalian or Jacobite party, formed a 
large and important exception from the 
general spirit of the nation, being declared 
patrons of not only dancing and song, but 
cf theatricals. 

Page 4, Note 2. — Till a recent period, and 
previous to the reign of George I., the his- 
tory of Scottish music was a matter of con- 
jecture only. Even the remark in the text 
as to the existence of music before the 
Reformation, had no proper basis. The 
existence of popular airs at a time little sub- 
sequent to the Reformation, including some 
which still flourish, is at length ascertained, 
in consccpience of the discovery of an MS. 
collection of airs, which belonged to Sir 
John Skene of Currie-hill, and must have 
been written about the year 1(520. See an 
elegant and laborious work by AVilliam 
Dauncy, Esq, Advocate, 4to., 1833. 

Page 5, Note 3. — The North American 



Indians, among whom the attachraent 
between the sexes is said to be weak, and 
love, in the purer sense of the word, unknown, 
seem nearly unacquainted with the charms 
of poetry and music. — See Weld's Tour. 
AVe quote this as an explanatory reference. 
It is, however, very far from the truth in 
both respects ; with due deference to the 
information whence Dr. Currie drew his 
authority. 

Page 5, Note 4. — Edward Gibbon. 

Page 6, Note 5. — This practice has 
ceased to prevail, so that the remarks of Dr. 
Currie on this subject are no longer appli- 
cable. 

Page 6, Note 6. — In this instance, again, 
the description of Dr. Currie is no longer 
applicable. And it is rather true, at present, 
that the tenant farmers of Scotland are 
superior, than that they are inferior to the 
same class in England ; and there is cer- 
tainly as much evidence of comfort in their 
mode of living. There has been a very 
rapid progress made in agricultural science, 
especially amongst the Lowland farmers of 
late years ; and even the labouring classes 
are upon an equal footing in respect of means 
and comforts in both portions of groat 
Britain, whereas, they are certainly better 
informed and educated in Scotland. Suppo- 
sing the remark to be reserved to the holders 
of land, or the capitalist peasantry, so to call 
them, the distinction has here even ceased 
to exist. 

Page 7, Note 7. — The rapid increase io 



4' 



NOTES TO THE 



inc i:o\i~umption of spirituous liquors is 
truly astonishing^. Ihe following fijfures 
ii,i>e been stated by a contemporary : " The 
amount of the duty on spirits distilled in 
Scotland is now upwards of £250,000 per 
annum. In 1777, it did not reach £8000." 
AUowino^ for the difference of values, and of 
the scale of duties levied, there is yet an 
enormous disparity ; and, when it is con- 
sidered that this is nidepeudently of all 
merely fermented liquors, au idea may be 
formed of the immense increase in the con- 
ruraption of intoxicating beverages. Taking 
ai,iin the returns of distillery for 1832, we 
have a gross of 5,407,097 gallons, and an 
aggregate duty of nearly a milliou sterling. 

Page 11, Note 8. — According to some 
authorities, the fair heroine of this young 
passion was called Nelly Blair. The lines 
which immortalized her are those which 
commence — "Once I loved a bonnie lass." 

Pace 12, Note 9.— In October, 1837, 
the editor conversed at Tarboltou with John 
Lees, shoemaker, who, when a stripling, used 
to act as Burns's second in his courting ex- 
peditions. The old man spoke with much 
glee of the aid he had given the poet in the 
way of askinri out lasses for him. When he 
had succeeded in bringing the girl out of 
doors, he of course became Monaicur de 
Trop, and Burns would say, " Now, Jack, ye 
may gang harae." 

Page 12, Note 10. — A correspondent of 
the Scotsman newspaper, 1828, communi- 
cated the following as recollections of Burns 
in his early rustic years : — " lie was par- 
ticularly distinguished at that species of 
merry-maknig called ' Rockings,' which are 
frequently alluded to in his writings. This 
kind of meeting is, or was (for I suppose 
the change of manners will have suppressed 
tliis innocent species of ' play ' ) formed of 
young people — servants generally, of both 
sexes, to the neighbouring farmers — who 
were allowed, during moonlight, to meet 
alternately at their respective houses, each 
lass thriftily carrying with her the spinning- 
wheel, and, while the song and the tale went 
round, never failing to complete her assigned 
task of spinning ; the lads, in the meanwhile, 
being as busily employed in knitting the 
stocking : the entertainment ending with a 
supper of a particular dish or two of country 
fare. On these occasions my narrator 
remembers well the distinguished part 
Burns used to take in the business of the 
evening. Often has she met hiin at the 
head of a little troop, coming from a distance 
nf three or four miles, with the spinning- 
M heel of his favourite, for the time being, 



mounted on his shoulders, and liis af* 
preach announced by the bursts of merri- 
ment which his ready and rough jokes had 
excited amongst the group. It was always 
expected that some new effusion of his 
muse should be produced to promote the 
enjoyment of the party, and sel-dom were 
they disappointed, ' Rob Burns's last 
night's poem' generally reaching the parlour 
in the course of the next day. At the 
kitchen of my friend's father (an extensive 
land proprietor) Burns's visits were of such 
frequency and duration as to call down the 
animadversions of the lady of the house, the 
alertness of her damsels in the morning 
being at times impaired by his unreasonable 
gallantry. 'I'his was supposed to be occa- 
sioned by a penchant he had formed for a 
certain Nelly Blair, a pretty girl, a servant 
in the family, and whom be celebrated in 
more songs and odes than her name appears 
in ; the only one likely to be applied to her 
now, being one which he himself transcribes, 
in a letter to Mr. Thomson, as one of his 
earliest effusions, and of which his ' Hand- 
some Nell,' I think, forms the burden. My 
friend describes him as being considered at 
that time as a clever fellow, but a wild 
scamp. " 

Page 12, Note 11. — The songs in ques- 
tion are respectively identified by the first 
lines of each as follows : — 

1. "It was upon a Lammas night." 

2. " Now westling winds and slaughterin' 
guns." 

3. " Behind yon hills where Lugar flows." 
Page 13, Note 12. — One Richard Browii, 

who however lived until within the last few 
years, and was latterly held in general 
esteem. 

Page 13, Note 13. — On the birth of an 
illegitimate child. 

Page 13, Note 14. — "The twa herds." 
Page 14, Note 15. — John Blane, at one 
time driver of a coach between Glasgow and 
Cumnock, and now (183S) residing at 
Kilmarnock, was for four years and a half 
farm-servant in the Burns family at 
Lochlee and Mossgiel. With Robert Bums, 
who was eight years his senior, he slept for 
a long time in the same bed, in the stable 
loft, at Mossgiel. He reports that Burns 
had a little deal table with a drawer in it, 
which he kept constantly beside the bed, 
with a small desk on the top of it. The 
best of his poems were here written during 
the hours of rest ; the table-drawer being 
the depository in which he kept them. To 
think of the Cotter's Saturday Night, the 
Lameut, and the Vision, being written in 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



4. '3 



tlie poor a:arret over a small farmer's stable ! 
He used to employ Blane to read the poems 
to liim, immediately after their composition, 
that he miuht be able the more cfl'ectually 
to detect faults in them. AVheii dissatisfied 
with a particular passage, he would stop the 
reading-, make an alteration, and then desire 
his companion to proceed. Blaue was often 
awakened by him during the night, that he 
might serve hiin in this capacity. It is to 
be gathered from the old man's conversation, 
that the bard of Ayr was a most rigid 
critic of his own compositions, and burned 
many with which he was displeased. 

P.vGE 14, Note 16. — iliss Helen Maria 
Vrilliams. 

Page 14, Note 17. — There are various 
copies of this letter in the auihor's hand- 
writing ; and one of these, evidently cor- 
rected, is in the book in which he had 
copied several of his letters. This has been 
used for the press, with some omissions, and 
one slight aJteration suggested by Gilbert 
Burns. 

Page 14, Note 18. — This house is on 
the right-hand side of the road from Ayr to 
Maybole, which forms a part of the road 
from Glasgow to Port-Patrick. When the 
poet's father afterwards removed to Tarbol- 
ton parish, he sold his leasehold right in 
this house, and a few acres of land adjoining, 
to the corporation of shoemakers in Ayr. 
It is now a country ale-house. 

Page 15, Note 19.— Mrs. Burns, the 
mother of Robert Burns, survived to the 
advanced age of 88. She died on the I4th 
of January, IS'20. 

Page 15, Note 20 — Quoted from a 
letter addressed by G. Burns, to Mrs. 
Bunlop. 

Page 15, Note 21. — Tlie farm alluded to 
was Mount Oliphant in the parish of Ayr. 
The passage is quoted from a letter from G. 
Burns to ^Irs. Uunlop. 

Page 16, Note 22. — The reading from 
Titus Adronicus, was from the revolting 
passage, — Act ii. Sc. 5. 

Page 17, Note 23.— Mr. Tennant, of 
Ayr, one of the few surviving early friends 
of Burns, has the following recollections 
respecting him : — " He first knew the poet, 
when attending Mr. Murdoch's school at 
Ayr, he being then fifteen, and Burns a year 
and a half older. Burns and he were fa- 
vourite pupils of Murdoch, who used to take 
them alternately to live with him, allowing 
them a share of his bed. Jlr. Murdoch 
was a well-informed and zealous teacher — a 
particularly good French scholar, insomuch 
that he at one time taught the language iu 



France. He thought his voice had some 
peculiar quality or power, adapting it in an 
uncoinraon degree for French pronunciation. 
To this predilection of the teacher, it ia 
probably owing that Burns acquired so 
much French, and had such a fancy for in- 
trodncing snatches of it in his letters. ' 
Murdoch was so anxious to advance his two 
favourite pupils, that, while they were lying 
with him, he was always taking opportu- 
nities of communicating knowledge. The 
intellectual gifts of Burns even at this time 
greatly impressed his fellow-scholar. Bobert 
and Gilbert Burns were like no other young 
men. Their style of language was quite 
above that of their compeers. Robert had 
borrowed great numbers of books, and ac- 
quainted himself with their contents, lie 
read rapidly, but remembered all that was 
interesting or valuable in what he read. 
He had the New Testament more at com- 
mand than any other youth ever known 
to Mr. Tennant, who was, altogether, 
more impressed in these his boyish days by 
the discourse of the youthful poet, than he 
afterwards was by his published verses. 
The elocution of Burns resembled that of 
Edmund Kean — deep, thoughtful, emphatic; 
and in controversy, no man could stand 
before him." 

Page 17, Note 24. — Mr. John Murdoch 
died April 20, 1824, aged seventy-seven. 
He had published a Radical vocabulary of 
the French language, 12mo, 1783 ; Pro- 
nunciation and Orthography of the 
French language, 8vo. 1788 ; Diction- 
ary of Distinctions, 8vo. 1811 ; and other 
works. He was a highly amiable and 
worthy man. In his latter days, illness had 
reduced him to the brink of destitution, 
and an appeal was made to the friends and 
admirers of his illustrious pupil, in his 
behalf. Some money was thus raised, and 
applied to the relief of his necessities. It ii 
stated, in the obituary notice of Mr. Mur- 
doch, published in the London papers, that 
he had taught English in London to several 
distinguished foreigners ; among the rest, 
to the celebrated Talleyrand, during his 
residence as an emigrant in England. 

Page 19, Note 25. — Both Robert and 
Gilbert speak of the total ruin of their 
father at the time of his death. " His all," 
says Robert, " went among the hell-hounds 
that prowl in the kennel of justice." it 
appears diiiicidt to reconcile this with the 
immediately ensuing statement, that Moss- 
giel was stocked by the property and indi- 
vidual savings of the whole family. But 
the fact, we understand to be, that at the 



454 



NOTES TO THE 



baiikruptoy of William Burns, his children 
had respectively considerable claims upon 
his estate, on account of their services to 
him on the farm, which claims were prefer- 
able to those of the other creditors. They 
thus, with the perfect approbation of the 
law, and we rather think of justice also, 
(though some thought otherwise at the time), 
rescued a portion of his property from the 
" hell-hounds." 

Page 19, Note 26. — John Blane, already 
mentioned, reports that, at Lochlee, the 
whole family, including the daughters, 
wrought at the various labours of the farm. 
The second daughter, Annabella by name, 
had a turn for poetry, but, not having been 
taiight to M'rite, was unable to commit her 
compositions to paper : few women of the 
same rank were at that time taught to write. 
I'he family was one which regularly went to 
church, one male and one female being left 
at home, to take care of the house, and 
"the beasts." Annabella would contiave to 
have Blane for her companion, that he might 
write down her poems during the absence 
of the rest. She took possession of the 
manuscripts, but was obliged by the severity 
of parental discipline, to conceal her love of 
the divine art. 

Page 20, Note 27. — According to credi- 
ble authorities, he was in the habit of walking 
every day to Kilmarnock, for the purpose of 
superintending the progress of his literary 
labours, through press ; and it is very 
certain that he was at this time labouring 
under the utmost privations, and subsisting 
upon the most scanty fare : — " dining off a 
piece of out cake, and tivo-pennyivorth of 
ale," according to one of his biograjihers. 

Page 20, Note 28. — Burns, himself, in 
many of his extant letters of this date, declares 
that he was " skulking from covert to covert, 
uiuler the terror of a jail," and that he was 
pursued to persecution by the officers, under 
proceedings intended to extort a compulsory 
provision for his twin children, by Miss Ar- 
mour, which, however, he was bent upon legi- 
timating, by marrying their mother; whilst 
the relations of Miss A. were driving him 
from pillar to post, in the hope of eifectualiy 
separatnig the lovers. 

Page 21, Note 29. — There is another 
observation of Gilbert Burns on his brother's 
narrative, in which some persons will be 
interested. It refers to where the poet 
speaks of his youthful friends. " My 
brother," says Gilbert Burns, " seems to set 
otfhis early companions in too consequential 
a manner. The principal acquaintance we 
baii in Ayr, while boys, were four sons of 



Mr. Andrew M'Cnlloch, a distant relation 
of my mother's, who kept a tea shop, and 
had made a little money in the contraband 
trade, very common at that time. He died 
while the boys were young, and my father 
was nominated one of the tutors. The two 
eldest were bred shopkeepers, the third a 
surgeon, and the youngest, the only survi- 
ving one, was bred in a counting-house in 
Glasgow, where he is now a respectable 
merchant. I believe all these boys went to 
the West Indies. Then there were two sons 
of Dr. Malcolm, whom I have mentioned in 
my letter to Mrs. Dunlop. The eldest a 
very worthy young man, went to the East 
Indies, where he had a commission in the 
army ; he is the person whose heart, my 
brother says, the Munny Becjum scenes could 
not corrupt. The other, by the interest of 
Lady Wallace, got an ensigncyin a regiment 
raised by the Duke of Hamilton during the 
American War. I believe neither of them 
are now (1797) alive. We also knew the 
present Dr. Paterson of Ayr, and a younger 
brother of his, now in Jamaica, who were 
much younger than ns. I had almost forgot 
to mention Dr. Charles of Ayr, who was a 
little older than my brother, and with whom 
we had a longer and closer intimacy than 
with any of the others, which did not, how- 
ever, continue in after life." 

Page 21, Note 30. — A Scottish term 
meaning fire. 

Page 21, Note 31. — The hoary brow. 

Page 21, Note 32. — Wishes or chooses. 

Page 21, Notes 33, 34, and 33. — An 
allusion to some airs known amongst the 
Scottish Psalmody. Reference is especially 
made to the three adopted by William 
Burns. 

Page 21, Note 36.— Supplies, adds fuel 
to. 

Page 21, Note 37.— The father of the 
family leading the family devotion. 

Page 25, Note 38. — " This business was 
first carried on here from the Isle of Man, 
and afterwards to a considerable extent 
from France, Ostend, and Gottenburgli. 
Persons engaged in it found it necessary 
to go abroad, and enter into business with 
foreign merchants ; and by dealing in tea, 
spirits, and silks, brought home to their 
families and friends the means of luxury 
and finery at the cheapest rate." — Statistical 
Account of Kirkosivakl, 1794. 

Page 28, Note 39. — The subjoined anec- 
dote may serve to throw some additional 
hght upon the nature of Burns' connexions 
at the period referred to. "The poet's May- 
bole friend, on inspecting the volume, was 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



455 



mortifipd to find the poetical epistle which 
had been addressed to him, printed with tlie 
name Andrew substituted for his own, and 
the motto from Blair, as was but proper, 
omitted. He said nothing at the time ; but, 
young:, ambitious, and conscious of liavin^^ 
done all in his humble power for friendship's 
cause, he could not forgive so marked a 
slight. He, therefore, from that time ceased 
to answer Burns's letters. When the poet 
was next at Maybole, he asked the cause, 
and Willie answered by inquiring if he could 
not himself divine it. lie said he thought 
he could, and adverted to the changed 
name in the poem. Mr. Robert Aiken, 
writer in Ayr, had been, he said, a useful 
friend aud patron to him. He had a son 
commencing a commercial life in Liverpool. 
I thought, he saul, that a few verses ad- 
dressed to this youth would gratify the 
father, and be accepted as a mark of my 
gratitude. But, my muse being lazy, I 
could not well make them out. After all, 
tliis old epistle occurred to rae, and by put- 
ting his name into it, in place of yours, I 
made it answer this purpose. Willie told 
him in reply, that he had just e.xclianged 
his friendship for that of Mr. Aiken, and 
recpiested that their respective letters might 
be burnt — a duty which he scrupulously 
performed on his own part. The two dis- 
putants of Kirkoswald never saw or cor- 
responded with each other again." 

Page 29, Note 40. — " Therefore are they 
before the throne of God, and serve him day 
and night in his temple : and he that sitteth 
on the throne shall dwell among them. 
'I'hey shall hunger no more, neither thirst 
any more; neither shall the sun light on 
them, nor any heat. For the Lamb which 
is in the midst of the throne shall feed 
them, and shall lead them unto the living 
fouutaiiis of waters : and God shall wipe 
aw ay all tears from their eyes." 

1'age 29, Note 4L — We have had several 
occasions lo notice the narrowness of t5urns's 
means, and the straits to which he was 
often reduced ; and the account which we 
have of the closing scene of his father's life, 
sufticiently explains how this extremity of 
tlistress should have failed to be relieved by 
his relatives. To those to whom such a cir- 
cumstance, however, may appear somewhat 
extraordinary, the subjoined particulars may 
be interesting: — "It is no uncommon case 
for a small farmer, or even cotter, in Scot- 
land, to have a son placed at some distant 
ecminary of learning, or serving an appren- 
ticeship to some metropolitan writer or 
Iradesmaii ; in which case, the youth is 



almost invariably supplied with oatmeal, tiie 
staple of the poor Scotsman's hfe — cheese, 
perhaps — oaten or barley bread, &c., from 
the home stores, by the intervention of the 
weekly or fortnightly carrier. The above 
passage recals to the Editor an anecdnte 
whicli is related of a gentleman, now high in 
consideration at the Scottish bar, whuse 
father, a poor villager in the upper ward of 
Lanarkshire, having contrived to get hira 
placed at Glasgow University, supported him 
there chiefly by a weekly bag of oatmeal. 
On one occasion, the supply was stopped for 
nearly three weeks by a snow-storm. The 
young man's meal, like Burns's, was out; 
but his pride, or his having no intimate ac- 
quaintance, prevented him from borrowing. 
And this remarkable and powerful-minded 
man had all but perished, before the dissolvhig 
snow allowed a new stock of provisions to 
reach him." 

Page 29, Note 42.— In his letter to Ur. 
Moore, Burns gives the following account 
of the consequences of this calamity to 
himself: — "This was an unlucky affair; as 
we were giving a welcome carousal to the 
new year the shop took fire, and burnt to 
ashes, and / was left, like a true poet, not 
worth a sixpence." " One who had known 
Burns at Irvine thus reported his recollec- 
tion of the poet's appearance and demeanour. 
He looked older than he was — was of a very 
dark complexion, and had a strong dark eye; 
his ordinary look, while in company, was 
thoughtful, amounting to what might be 
called a gloomy attentiveness. 'When not 
interested in the conversation, he might 
sometimes be seen, for a considerable space, 
leaning down on his palm, with his elbow 
resting on his knee — perhaps the most mel- 
ancholy of all postures short of the prostra- 
tion of despair. He was in common silent 
and reserved ; but when he found a man to 
his mind, he made a point of attaching him- 
self to the company of that person, and 
endeavouring to bring out his powers. 
Aniong women he never failed to exert liim- 
self, and always shone. People remarked, 
even then, that when Robert Burns did 
speak, he always spoke to the point, ami in 
general with a sententious brevity. Frdiu 
another source we learn that Burns at this 
time loved to debate theological to))ics 
amongst the rustic groups which met in the 
churchyard after service." 

Page 30, Note 43. — Sillar was a brother 
rhymster of Burns's, and it was to him that 
the Epistle to Davie was addressed. Mr, 
Sillar subsequently became a wealthy magis- 
trate hi Irvine, by uihenting, very unex- 



40 



45*^ 



NOTES TO THE 



ptciedly, a large fortune trom a distant rela- 
tive, he had, however, before this, settled 
Hs a teaclier in the same place, and lived in 
competent circumstances. He has only been 
dead a few years. 

Page 31, Note 44. — At the period at 
which Dr. Currie wrote his biographical 
account of Burns, these societies were com- 
paratively scarce, and it was worthy of some 
remark that works of this particular character 
were held in preference. The Scotch, besides, 
beincr an imaginative people, are, however, 
essentially a scientific nation, and in these 
days a great variety of literary material has 
become poptdarised amongst them. Indeed, 
" book societies and village libraries have 
greatly increased in number, and means, for- 
merly undreamt of, have been taken for fur- 
nishing intellectual food to the people. It 
may, at the same time, be mentioned that no 
evil result of any kind is known to have 
arisen from the alleged predilection of the 
Scottish peasantry for books of elegant lite- 
rature. We tiiink it likely that this predi- 
lection is greatly overstated in the text. 
One great change has, however, taken place 
in the tastes of the rural people of Scotland. 
Their book-shelves or window-soles, which 
formerly contained only a few books of 
divinity, with perhaps Blind Harry's Wallace 
and Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd, or some 
specimens of secular literature, now exhibit, 
in many instances, a considerable store of 
productions in the belles lettres, and of valu- 
able books of information. The individuals 
who sell books in numbers, or small parts, 
speak strongly of the change which has taken 
place amongst them, during the last thirty 
years, from an exclusively theoolgical to a 
general taste." 

Page 35, Note 45.— In Cobbett's Maga- 
zine. 

Page 35, Note 46. — The female infant 
continued to be nursed by its mother, but 
unable to provide any better attention for 
the hoy, the family entrusted him to the care 
of some good people at Mos-^giel, where he 
was reared by hand, being fed upon cow's milk. 
Page 36, Notb 47. — JMiss Alexander, 
who had become the purchaser of the estate 
in the scenery of which Burns delighted to 
revel. Wilhelmina Alexander was the sister 
of Mr. Claude Alexander, who has served as 
paymaster to the troops in India. 

Page 36, Note 48.— This letter is pre- 
tierved as a great treasure at Ballochmyle. 
At the close. Burns requests, as a favour, 
the permission to include the poem which 
accompanied it in the forthcoming second 
edition of his works. 



Page 36, Note 49. — This is correct in 
Scottish phraseology ; in strictly grammati- 
cal English, we should have used the word 
hung for hang. 

Page 36, Note 50. — These lines origi- 
nal'y stood thus : — 

" The lily's hue and roses' dye 

Bespoke the lass o' Ballochmyle." 

Page 37, Note 51. — The individual al- 
luded to was a modest and amiable girl, named 
Mary Campbell, whose parents resided at 
Campbelltown in Argyleshire. It can never 
detract from the pathos of her history, to 
relate that she was a servant — we believe, 
the dairy-woman — at Coilsfield House, the 
seat of Colonel Montgomery, afterwards 
twelfth earl of Eglinton. Burns partly 
narrates the tale of his affection for this 
young woman. " After a pretty long trial," 
he says, "of the most ardent reciprocal affec- 
tion, we met, by appointment, on the second 
Sunday of May, in a sequestered spot by the 
banks of Ayr, where we spent a day in taking 
a farewell before she should embark for the 
West Highlands, to arrange matters annmg 
her friends for our projected change of life. 
At the close of the autumn follownig, she 
crossed the sea to meet me at Greenock, 
where she had scarce landed when she was 
seized with a malignant fever, which hurried 
my dear girl to her grave in a few days, 
before I could even hear of her illness." 
Mr. Cromek further informs us, that this 
adieu was performed with all those simple 
and striking ceremonials, which rustic senti- 
ment has devised to prolong tender emotions 
and to impose awe. The lovers stood on 
each side of a small purling brook — they 
laved their hands in the limpid stream— and, 
holding a Bible between them, pronounced 
their vows to be faithful to each other. 
They parted — never to meet again." It is 
proper to add," says Mr. Lockhart, " that 
Mr. Cromek's story has recently been con- 
firmed very strongly by the accidental dis- 
covery of a Bible, presented by Burns to 
Mary Campbell, in tiie possession of her 
still surviving sister at Ardrossan. Upon 
the boards of the first volume is inscribed, iu 
Burns's handwriting — ' And ye shall not 
swear by my name falsely, I am the Lord.' — • 
Levit. chap. xix. v. 12.' On the second 
volume — 'Thou shalt not forswear thyself, 
butshalt perform unto the Lord thine oaths.' 
— St. Matlh. chap. v. 33. And, on a blank 
leaf of either — ' Robert Burns, Mossgiel' — • 
with his mason-mark." The fine lyrics. 
Highland Mary, and To Mary in Heaven, 



LIFE n? imRXS. 



4-57 



with tlip notes attached to them, tdl the 
remainder of this sorrowful tale. 

Page 37, Note 52. — Gilbert Burns, in a 
letter addressed to the Editor [Dr. Ciirrie], 
has gjiven the following account of the friends 
which Robert's talents procured him before 
he left Ayrshire, or attracted the notice of 
the world : — 

" The farm of Moss£jiel, at the time of our 
coniint; to it (Martinmas, 1783), was the pro- 
perty of the Earl of Loudon, but was held 
in tack by Mr. Gavin Hamilton, writer, in 
iMauchline, from whom we had our bargain ; 
who had thus an opportunity of knowing:, 
and showing a sincere regard for my brother, 
before he knew that he was a poet. The 
poet's estimation of him, and the strong out- 
lines of his character, may be collected from 
tlie dedication to this gentleman. When 
tlie publication was begun, Jlr. Hamilton 
entered very warmly into its interests, and 
prom'>ted the subscription very extensively. 
Mr. Robert Aiken, writer in Ayr, is a man 
of worth and taste, of warm affections, and 
connected with a most respectable circle of 
friends and relations. It is to this gentleman 
The Cotter's Saturday Night is inscribed. 
The poems of my brother, which I have for- 
merly mentioned, no sooner came into his 
hands, tlian they were quickly known, and 
well received in the extensive circle of Mr. 
Aiken's friends, wL'ich gave them a sort of 
currency, necessary in this wise world, even 
for the good reception of things valuable in 
thcnTielves. But Mr. Aiken not oidy ad- 
mired the poet ; as soon as he became 
acquainted with him, he showed the warmest 
regard for the man, and did everything in 
his power to forward his interest and re- 
spectability. The Epistle to a Young Friend 
was addressed to this gentleman's son, JNIr. 
A. H. Aiken, now of Liverpool. He was 
the oldest of a young family, who were 
taught to receive my brother with respect, 
as a man of genius, and their father's friend. 

The Brigs of Ayr is inscribed to John 
Ballantine, Esq., banker, in Ayr; one of those 
pentlemen to whom my brother was intro- 
duced by Mr. Aiken. He interested himself 
very warmly in my brother's concerns, and 
constantly showed the greenest friendship 
and attachment to him. When the Kilmar- 
nock edition was all sold off, and a consider- 
able demand pointed out the propriety of 
publishing a second edition, Mr. Wilson, who 
had prnited the first, was asked if he 
would print the second, and take his chance 
of beinir paid from the first sale. This he 
dcclnied. and when this came to Mr. Ballan- 
tine's knowledge, lie generously offered to 



accommodate Robert with what money he 
might need for that purpose; but advi?ed 
him to go to Edinburgh, as the fittest place 
for publishing. When he did go to l'](iin- 
bnrgh, his friends advised him to publish 
again by subscription, so that he did not 
need to accept this offer. Mr. Wdliani 
Parker, merchant in Kilmarnock, wan a sub- 
scriber for thirty-five copies of the Kilmar- 
nock edition. This may, perhaps, appear 
not deserving of notice here; but if the 
comparative obscurity of the poet at this 
period, be taken into consideration, it appears 
to me a greater effort of generosity than 
many thnigs which appear more brilliant in 
my brother's future history. 

"Mr. Robert Muir, merchant in Kilmar- 
nock, was one of those friends Robert's 
poetry had procured him, and one who was 
dear to his heart. This gentleman had no 
very great fortune, or long line of dignified 
ancestry ; but what Robert says of Captain 
Matthew Henderson, might be said of him 
with great propriety, thnt he held the patent 
of his honours imniedialeli/ from Almight'j 
God. Nature had, indeed, marked him a 
gentleman in the most legible characters. 
He died while yet a young man, soon after 
the publication of my brother's first Edin- 
burgh edition. Sir William Cunningham of 
Robertland, paid a very flattering attention, 
and showed a good deal of friendship for the 
poet. Before his going to Edinburgh, as 
well as after, Robert seemed peculiarly 
pleased with Professor Stewart's friendship 
and conversation. 

" But of all the friendships which Robert 
acquired in Ayrshire and elsewhere, none 
seemed more agreeable to him than that ot 
Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop ; nor any which has 
been more uniformly and constantly exerted 
in behalf of him and his family, of which, 
were it proper, I could give many instances. 
Robert was on the point of setting out for 
Edinburgh before ^Irs. Dunlop had heard of 
him. About the time of my brother's pub- 
lishing in Kilmarnock, she had been afHicted 
with a long and severe illness, which had 
reduced her mind to the most distressing 
state of depression. In this situation, a copy 
of the printed poems was laid on her table 
by a friend ; and, happening to open on 
The Cotter's Saturday Night, she read it 
over with the greatest pleasure and surprise; 
the poet's description of the simple cottagers 
operating on her mind like the charm of a 
powerful exorcist, expelling the demon ennui, 
and restoring her to her wonted inward har- 
mony and satisfaction. Mrs. Dunlop sent 
oU' a person express to Moss^iel, distant 



468 



NOTES TO THE 



fifteen or sixteen miles, with a very obliging 
letter to my brother, desiring him to send 
her half a dozen copies of his poems, if he 
had them to spare, and begging he would do 
her tlie pleasure of calling at Dunlop House 
as soon as convenient. This was the begni- 
ning of a correspondence which ended only 
with the poet's lile. The last use he made 
of his pen. was writing a short letter to this 
lady a li days before his death. 

Colducl Fullarton, who afterwards paid a 
very particular attention to the poet, was not 
in the country at the time of his first com- 
mencing author. At this distance of time, 
and in the hurry of a wet day, snatched from 
laborious occupations, I may have forgot 
some jiersons who ought to have been men- 
tioned on this occasion ; for which, if it 
come to my knovvledge, I shall be heartily 
sorry." 

'liie friendship of IMrs. Dmdop was of 
particular value to Burns. Tiiis lady, 
daugiiter and sole heiress to Sir Thomas 
AValhce of Craigie, and lineal descendant of 
the ilhistrious Wallace, the first of Scottish 
warriors, possesses the qualities of mind 
suited to her high lineage. Preserving, in 
the decline of life, the generous affections of 
youth, her admiration of the poet was soon 
accompanied by a sincere friendship for the 
man, which pursued him in after-life through 
good and evil report — in poverty, in sickness, 
and in sorrow — and wlncli is continued to 
his infant family, now deprived of their 
parent. [Mrs. Dunlop was the lineal de- 
scendant, not of Sir William Wallace, but of 
his father's elder brother. This amiable and 
enlightened person died May 24, 1815, 
Bt an advanced age ] 

Page 38, Note 53. — "Thomas Blacklock, 
P.D. (horn at Annan, Nov. 10, 1721, died at 
Ediidmrgh, July 7, 1791), though blind 
from the age of six months, acquired the 
education suitable for the clerical profession, 
and wrote poetry considerably above medi- 
ocrity. It was a fortunate circumstance that 
the person whom Dr. Laurie applied to, 
merely because he was the only one of his 
literary acquaintances with whom he chose 
to use that freedom, happened also to be the 
person best qualified to render the applica- 
tion successful. Dr. Blacklock was an en- 
thusiast in his admiration of an art which he 
had practised himself with applause. He 
felt the claims of a poet with a paternal 
sympathy, and he had in his constitution a 
tenderness and sensibility that would have 
engaged his beneficence for a youth in the 
circuuistances of Burns, even though he had 
not been indebted to him, for the delight 



which he received from his works ; for if tho 
young men were enumerated whom he drew 
from obscurity, and enabled by education to 
advance themselves in life, the catalogue 
would naturally excite surprise. * • • He 
was not of a disposition to discourage with 
feeble praise, and to shift off the trouble of 
future patronage, by bidding him relinquish 
poetry, and mind his plough." — Professor 
Walker. 

The following is the letter of Dr. Black- 
lock to Dr. Laurie, by which the poet was 
prevented from going to Jamaica, and had 
his steps turned towards Edinburgh : — 

" I ought to have acknowledged your 
favour long ago, not only as a testimony of 
your kind remembrance, but as it gave me 
an opportunity of sharnig one of the finest, 
and perhaps, one of the most genuine enter- 
tainments of which the human mind is 
susceptible. A number of avocations retarded 
my progress in reading the poems ; at last, 
however, I have finished that pleasing perusal. 
Many instances have I seen of Nature's 
force or beneficence exerted under numerous 
and formidable disadvantages ; but none 
equal to that with which you have been kind 
enough to present me. There is a pathos 
and delicacy in his serious poems, a vein of 
wit and humour in those of a more festive 
turn, which cannot be too much admired, 
nor too warmly approved ; and I think I 
shall never open the book without feeling 
my astonishment renewed and increased. It 
was my wish to have expressed my approba- 
tion in verse; but whether from declining 
life, or a temporary ilepression of spirits, it 
is at present out of my power to accomplish 
that intention. 

" Mr Stewart, Professor of Morals in this 
university, had formerly read me three of the 
poems, and I had desired him to get my 
name inserted among the subscribers ; but 
whether this was done or not, I never could 
learn. I have little intercourse with Dr. 
Blair, but will take care to have the poems 
communicated to him by the intervention of 
some mutual friend. It has been told me 
by a gentleman, to whom I showed the per- 
formances, and who sought a copy with 
diligence and ardour, that the whole impres- 
sion is already exhausted. It were, therefore, 
much to be w ished, for the sake of the young 
man, that a second edition, more numerous 
than the former, could immediately he 
printed; as it ajipears certain that its in- 
trinsic merit, and the exertion of tiie 
author's friends, might give it a more uni- 
versal circulation than anything of the kuiJ 
which has been pubhshed in my memory." 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



459 



Page 38, Note 54. — Mr. Dalziel was 
employed by the Earl of Glencairn, in the 
capacity of steward to his estates, and was 
located iu Ayrshire, in the estate called 
Finlayston, belonging to that nobleman. 

Page 38, Note 55. — Mr. Cunningham, 
in his account of this period, in the poet's 
career, has given the following portraiture of 
him : — " After his return to Edinburgh, he 
seemed for some days, as in earlier life, i}u- 
fitted with an aim, and wandered about, 
looking down from Arthur's seat surveying 
the palace, gazing at the castle, or contem- 
plating the windows of the bookseller's 
shops, wherein he saw all works save the 
poems of the ploughman of Ayrshire. He 
picked his way to the solitary tomb of Fer- 
gusson, and kissed the sod as he knelt down; 
he sought out the house of Allan Ramsay, 
and on entering it, took off his hat ; and 
when, subsequently, he was introduced to 
Creech, the bibliopole remembered that he 
had before heard of his inquiring whether 
this had been the shop of the author of the 
Gentle Shepherd. 

Page 38, Note 56. — The following are 
the lines in question : — 

This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I. Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, 
Sae far I sprackled up the brae, 

I diuner'd wi' a lord. 

I've been at drunken writer's feasts. 
Nay, been bitcli-fou'd 'mang gadly priests, 

VVi' rev'rence be it spoken : — 
I've even joined the honour'd jorum, 
\\ hen miglity squireships of the quorum. 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 

But wi' a lyord ! stand out my shin ! 
A Lord ! a Peer ! a true Earl's son ! 

Up higher yet my bonnet ! 
And sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa. 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a'. 

As 1 look o'er my sonnet. 

But, oh ! for Hogarth's magic pow'r ! 
To show Sir Bardy's willyart glow'r. 

And how he star'd and stammer'd. 
When goavan, as if led wi' branks. 
And stumpiu' on his ploughman shanks, 

lie in the parlour hammer'd. 

I sliding shclter'd in a nook. 
And at his i>ordship steal't a look. 

Like some portentous omen : 
Except good sense and social glee, 
And (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 



I watch'd the symptoms o' the great, 

The gentle prido, the lordly state. 

The arr.i, it assuming: 
The fieut a pride, uae pride had he. 
Nor sauce, nor state, tliat I could see, 
Mair than an honest ploughman. 

Then from his Lordship I shall learn. 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as well's another; 
Nae honest worthy man need care. 
To meet with noble youthful Daer» 

For he but meets a brother. 

The nobleman alluded to in these lines, was, aa 
has been noticed, Basil Lord Daer, the eldest 
sou and heir of Dunbar Earl of Selkirk. 
Imbued with the equalising notions of the 
French Revolution, from the seat of whic'n 
he had but very recently returned, he was 
free from all the absurd affectation of sim- 
plicity and hypocritical pretence of equality, 
and was as truly simple in his manners and 
appearance, as genuinely courteous to his 
inferiors in rank, and as unostentatiously 
benevolent, as his heart was sound, and his 
judgment untainted and unbiassed. His 
early death, on the 5 th of November, 1794, 
was sincerely lamented by the many of the 
humble, yet meritorious associates whom he 
had rescued from undeserved obscurity. 
Lord Uaer was only 31 years of age when 
he died. 

Page 39, Note 57. — Dr. Currie had seen 
and conversed with Burns. 

Page — , Note 58. — Refer to note 59, 
the number 58 having been omitted in the 
corrections. 

Page 41, Note 59. — There issome want of 
preciseness about this date. Gilbert Uurus 
seems to have been under the impression 
that the real date should have been rendered 
1789-90, whilst others amongst the biogra- 
phers, &c., who furnish us with material re- 
lating to the poet, prefer to render the date 
as 1787-83. I believe, from other docnnients, 
that the date is correctly rendered in liie text, 
and from some scraps of memoranda derived 
originally from Dr. Mackenzie through .Mr. 
Bland, I should say that the matter waa 
beyond a doubt. — [Ed.] 

Page 41, Note 60. — The reader is re- 
ferred from this quotation to the '• General 
Correspondence of Burns" in the foregoing 
part of this volume, under the date of Feb. 
14, 179L It will be seen that the context 
furnished by other letters of an approximato 
date, throw much light on this period iu 
his life. 

Page 41, Note 61. — The recollections 
of Mr. John Richmond writer in Maucli 



40^ 



460 



NOTES TO THE 



line, respecting Burns's arrival, and the 
earlier period of liis residence, in Edinbnrgh, 
are curious. Mr. Richmond, who hsd been 
brought up in the office of a country writer, 
and was now perfecting his studies in that 
of a metropolitan practitioner, occupied a 
room in the house uf a Mrs. Carfrae, in 
Baxter's Close, Lawnmarket, at the rent of 
three shillings a-week. His circumstances 
as a youth just entering the world made 
him willing to share his apartment and bed 
with any aijreeable companion, who might 
be disposed to take part in the expense. 
These terms suited his old Mauchline ac- 
quaintance, Burns, who accordingly lived 
with him in Mrs. Carfrae's from his arrival 
in November till his leaving town in May, 
on his southern excursions. Mr. Ricliraond 
mentions that the poet was so knocked up 
by his walk from ]\iauchline to Edinburgh, 
that he could not leave his room for tlie 
next two days. During the whole time of 
his residence there, his habits were tempe- 
rate and regular. Much of his time was 
necessarily occupied in preparing his poems 
for the press — a task in which, as far as 
transcription was concerned, Mr. Richmond 
aided him, when not engaged in his own 
office duties. Burns, though frequently 
invited out into company, usually returned 
at good hours, and went soberly to bed, 
where he would prevail upon his companion, 
by little bribes, to read to him till he fell 
asleep. Mr. Lockhart draws an unfavour- 
able inference from his afterwards removing 
to the house of his friend Nicol; but for 
this removal Mr. Richniond supplies a 
reason which exculpates the bard. During 
Burns's absence in the south and at IMauch- 
line, Mr. Richmond took in another fellow- 
lodger ; so that, when the poet came back, 
and applied for re-adraission to Mrs. 
Carfrae's humble menage, he found liis 
place filled up, and was compelled to go 
elsewhere. 

The exterior of Burns for some time after 
his arrival in Edinburgh, was little superior 
to that of his rustic compeers. " What a 
clod-hopper ! " was the descriptive exclama- 
tion of a lady, to whom he was abruptly 
pointed out one day in the Lawnmarket. In 
the course of a few weeks he got into com- 
paratively fashionable attire — a blue coat 
with metal buttons, a yellow and blue 
stripped vest (being the livery of Mr. Fox), 
a pair of buckskins, so tight that he seemed 
to have grown into them, and top-boots, 
meeting the buckskins under the knee. 
His neckcloth of white cambric, was neatly 
mraugel, and his whole appearance was 



clean and respectable, though the taste in 
which he was dressed was still obviously a 
rustic taste. 

Though his habits during the winter oi 
1786-7 were, upon the whole, good, he was 
not altogether exempt from the bacclia- 
nalianisra which at this period reigned ia 
Edinburgh. Mr. "William Nicol of the 
High School, and Mr. John Gray, city-clerk, 
were amongst his most intimate convivial 
friends. Nicol lived in the top of a house 
over what is called Buccleuch Pend, in the 
lowest floor of which there was a tavern, 
kept by a certain Lucky Pringle, having a 
back entry from the pend, through which 
visitors could be admitted, unwotted of by a 
censorious world. Tlieie Burns was much 
with Nicol, both before and after his taking 
up his abode in that gentleman's house. 
He also attended pretty frequently the 
meetings of the Crochallan Fencihles, at their 
howff in the Anchor Close; and of Johnnie 
Bowie's tavern, in Libberton's Wynd, he 
was a frequent visitor. Mr. Alexander 
Cunningham, jeweller, and Mr. Robert 
Cieghorn, farmer at Saughton Mills, may ba 
said to complete the list of Rurns's convivial 
acquaintance in Edinburgh. The intimacy 
he formed with Mr. Robert Ainslie, then a 
young writer's apprentice, appears to have 
been of a different character. 

P.^GE 41, Note 62. — Mr. Dalrymple of 
Oraugefield, and the Honourable Henry 
Erskine, may be mentioned as individuals 
who exerted themselves in behalf of Burns, 
immediately after his arrival in Edinburgh. 
Dr. Adam Fergusson, author of the History 
of the Roman Republic, may also be added 
to Dr. Currie's Ur.t of his literary and 
philosophical patrons. At ths house of the 
latter gentleman. Sir Walter Scott met with 
Burns, of whom he has given his recollec- 
tions in the following letter to Mr. 
Lockhart : — 

" As for Burns, I may truly say, Vtr- 
giliuin vidi tantum. I was a lad of fifteen in 
1786-7, when he came first to Edinburgh, 
but had sense and feeling enough to be 
much interested in his poetry, and would 
have given the world to know him ; but I 
had very little acquaintance with any literary 
people, and still less with the gentry of the 
west country, the two sets whom he most 
frequented. Blr. T. Grierson was at that 
time a clerk of my father's. He knew 
Burns, and promised to ask him to his 
lodgings to dinner, but had no opportunity 
to keep his word ; otherwise I might have 
seen more of this distinguished man. As it 
was, I saw him oue day at the late ven& 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



461 



rable Professor Fergiisson's. where there were 
several jcentlemeii of literary reputation, 
amono: whom I remember the celebrated 
Mr. Dugald Stewart. Of course we young- 
sters sat silent, looked and listened. The 
only thing I remember which was remark- 
able in Buvns's manner, was the effect 
produced upon him by a prmt of Bunbury's, 
representing a soldier lying dead on the snow, 
his dog sitting in misery on one side 
- — on the other, his widow, with a child in 
her arms. These lines were written be- 
neath : — ■ 

'Cold on Canadian hills, or Mnulen's plain, 
Perhaps that parent wept her soldier slain — 
Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, 
The big drops mingling with the milk he 

drew. 
Gave the sad presage of his future years. 
The child of misery baptised in tears.' 
Burns seemed much affected by the print, or 
rather the ideas which it suggested to his 
mind. He actually shed tears. He asked 
whose the lines were, and it chanced that 
nobody but myself remembered that they 
occur in a half-forgotten poem of Langhorne's, 
called by the unpromising title of 'The 
Justice of Peace.' I whispered my informa- 
tion to a friend present, who mentioned it to 
Burns, who rewarded me with a look and a 
word, which, though in mere civility, I then 
received, and still recollect, with great plea- 
sure. His person was strong and robust ; 
his manners rustic, not clownish ; a sort of 
diguilied plainness and simplicity, which 
received part of its effect, perhaps, from one's 
knowledge of his extraordinary talents. His 
features are represented in Jlr. Nasmyth's 
picture ; but to me it conveys the idea that 
they are diminished, as if seen in perspective 
I think his countenance was more massive 
than it looks in any of the portraits. 1 would 
have taken the poet, had I not known what 
he was, for a very sagacious country farmer 
of the old Scotch school ; that is. none of 
your modern agriculturists, who keep 
labourers for their drudgery, but the douce 
guidmaii who held his owu plough. There 
was a strong expression of sense and shrewd- 
ness in all his lineaments ; tlie eye alone, 1 
think, indicated the poetical character and 
temjieraraent. It was large, and of a cast, 
whit h glowed (I say literally glowed} wiieii 
he spoke with feeling or interest. I never 
saw such another eye in a human head, 
though I have seen the most distinguished 
men of my time. His conversation expressed 
perfect self-confidence, without the slightest 
presumptioo. Amon^ the men who were 



the most learned of their time and country, 
he expressed himself with perfect firmness 
but without the least intrusive forwardness ; 
and when he differed in opinion, he did not 
hesitate to express it firmly, yet, at the same 
time, with modesty. I do not remember 
any part of his conversation distinctly enough 
to quote it ; nor did I ever see him again, 
except in the street, where he did not recog- 
nise me, as I could not expect he should. 
He was much caressed in Edinburgh, but 
(considering what literary emoluments have 
Ijeen raised since his day) the efforts made 
for his relief were extremely trifling. I 
remember, on this occasion I mention, I 
thought Burns's acquaintance with English 
poetry was rather limited, and also, that 
having twenty times the abilities of Allan 
Ramsay and of Fergusson, he talked of them 
with too much humility as his models : there 
was, doubtless, national predilection in his 
estimate. This is all I can tell you about 
Burns. I have only to add, that his dress 
corresponded with his manner. He was like 
a farmer dressed in his best to dine with the 
laird. I do not speak in malam partem, 
when I say I never saw a man in company 
with his superiors in station and information, 
more perfectly free from either the reality or 
the affectation of embarrassment. I was 
told, but did not observe it, that his address 
to females was extremely deferential, and 
always with a turn either to the pathetic or 
humorous, which engaged their attention 
particularly. I have heard the late Duchess 
of Gordon remark this. I do not know any- 
thing I can add to these recollections of forty 
years since." 

Page 41, Note 63. — Jane Duchess of 
Gordon, so remarkable in her time, was one 
amongst the most striking personages of his 
acquaintance. 

Page 42, Note 64. — It was by the Earl 
of Gleiicairn, or through his instrumentality, 
that ]\Ir. W. Creech, the bookseller, was 
introduced to Burns. Mr. Creech liad 
travelled on the continent, in the character 
of tutor and companion to the young noble- 
man, and the latter had in view the produc- 
tion of a new edition of Burns's works when 
he effected the introduction. The Earl did 
not long survive. He died in the prime of 
life (at the age of 42 years), on the 30th of 
January, 1791, at Falmouth. 

Page 44, Note 65. — The second edition 
of the poems came out in April, 1787 — a 
handsome octavo, price five shillings to sub- 
scribers, and one shilling more to others. 
Above 2,800 copies had been bespoke by 
rather more than 1,500 subscribers; the 



4H2 



NOTES TO THE 



Caledonian Hunt taking 100 copies, Creech 
500, the Earl of Eshnton 42, the Duchess 
of Gordon, 21, the Earl of Glencairn and his 
Countess 24, while many other individuals 
eubscribed for numbers ranging between two 
and twelve. The number of names of nobility 
and gentry is very surprising, the rest being 
chiefly persons in the middle walks of life, 
from all districts, however, of Scotland. The 
list has now some historical value, as a 
chronicle of the society of the day. 

The new edition of his poems was embel- 
lished by a portrait of himself, engraved by 
Beugo, from a painting by Alexander Na- 
smyth. Tlie engraver, who, to his honour 
be it said, did his work gratuitously, improved 
upon the original portrait by a few sittings 
from the bard ; and his production is allowed 
to be the most faithful likeness of Burns in 
existence. 

Page 45, Note 66. — After seeing this 
remark in priiit. Dr. Somerville never punned 
more. -He was the author of two substan- 
tial works on the history of England between 
the Restoration and the accession of the 
Brunswick dynasty. He died. May 16, 1830, 
at the age of ninety years, sixty-four of 
which had been passed in the clerical pro- 
fession. A son of Dr. Somerville is husband 
to a lady distinguished in the scientific world. 

Page 46, Note 67. — "Burns returned to 
Mauchline on the 8th of June. It is pleasing 
to imagine the delight with v;hich he must 
have been received by his family after an 
absence of six months, in which his fortunes 
and prospects had undergone so wonderful a 
change. He left them comparatively un- 
known, his tenderest feelings torn and 
wounded by the conduct of the Armours, 
and in such a wretched state of utter indi- 
gence, as to be compelled to lurk about from 
hiding-place to hiding-place to escape the 
otlicers, whose pursuit was unabated, and on 
account of a very inconsiderable claim against 
him. He returned ; his poetical fame esta- 
blished ; the whole country ringing with his 
praises, from a capital in which he was known 
to have formed the wonder and delight of 
the polite and learned ; if not rich, yet with 
more money already than any of his kindred 
had ever hoped to see him possess, and with 
prospects of future patronage and permanent 
elevation in the scale of society, which might 
have dazzled steadier eyes than those of ma- 
ternal and fraternal affection. The prophet 
had at last honour in his own country, but 
the haughty spirit which had preserved its 
balance at Edinburgh was not likely to lose 
it at Mauchline; and we have him writing 
for " auld day biggin," on the 18th of July, 



in terms as strongly expressive as any that 
ever emanated from his pen; of that jealous 
pride which formed the groundwork of his 
character, the dark suspiciousness of fortune 
which the subsequent course of his history too 
well justified; that nervous intolerance of 
condescension, and consummate scorn of 
meanness, which attended and characterised 
him through life, and made the study of his 
species, for which nature had endowed him 
with such peculiar qualifications, the source 
of more pain than was ever counterbalanced 
by the requisite capacity for enjoyment with 
which he was also endowed. There are few 
of his letters in which more of the dark 
abodes and secret lurking places of his spirit 
are made manifest: — "1 never," says he, 
"my friend, dreamt that mankind were capa- 
ble of anything very lofty or generous ; but 
the stateliness of the patricians of Edin- 
burgh, and the servility of my own plebeian 
brethren (who, perhaps, formerly eyed me 
askance), since I returned home, have almost 
put me out of conceit altogether of my 
species. I have bought a pocket-Milton, 
which I carry continually about me, in order 
to study the sentiments, the dauntless raag- 
nauimity, the intrepid, unyielding independ- 
ence, the desperate daring, and noble defiance 
of hardship in that great personage, Satan. 
The many ties of acquaintance or friendship 
I have, or think I have in life, I have felt 
along the lines, and, damn them ; they are 
almost all of them of such frail texture, that 
I am sure they would not stand the breath 
of the least adverse breeze of fortune." — 

LOCKHART. 

Page 46, Note 63. — This person was 
Mr. James Smith, a former resident of 
Mauchline, but who, at the period in ques- 
tion, had removed to Linlithgow. 

Page 46, Note 69. — All three of these 
are the titles of popular Scottish songs. 
They were all collated with the assistance of 
Burns, and published in the shape of a 
monthly periodical. Burns used to delight 
in reverting to the praise of TuUochgnrum, 
as a most genuine specimen of Scottish 
minstrelsy; and this song had been attributed 
to various authors, but was the work of the 
Rev. Mr. Skinner. 

Page 47, Note 70. — Here would be suffi- 
cient evidence that up to this time Burns 
was legally, and to all intents and purposes 
an unmarried man, altliough much against 
his own inclination, and his repeated entrea- 
ties to the inexorable Armours. The penance 
to which he had submitted, of itself entitled 
him to a certificate of single blessedness ; 
which, indeed, was offered by the officiating 



i.i'-'i'. <w ni'Tj''"?. 



iiiiiiister. But l\ere have we in a letter ad- 
dressed to Mr. Gavin Hamilton, and bearing 
date from Edinbiirsh, January 7th, 1787, 
some additional and conclusive evidence ou 
the subject. 

" To tell the truth," says Burns, " amonjrst 
frieiid*, I feel a miserable blank in my heart 
with the want of her (that is Jean Armour), 
and I don't think I shall ever meet with so 
d»'h<"it.u9 an armful a;;aiii. She lias her 
faults; but so have you and 1, and so has 
everybody else. 

' Their tricks and craft have put me daft: — 
They've taen me in and a' that ; 
But clear the decks, and here's the sex, 
I loe the jaJs for a' that! 
For a' that and a' that, 
Aud twice as muckie's a' that.* 
[Part wanting.'] 

''I have met," he proceeds, with a very 
pretty lass, a Lothian farmer's daughter, 
whom I have almos-t persuaded to accompany 
me to the \., sc country, should I ever return 
to settle there. By tiie bye, a Lotliian/ar- 
nier is about an Ayrshire squire of the lower 
kind ; and I had a most exquisite ride from 
liCith to her house yesternight, in a hackney 
coach, with her brother and two sisters, and 
brother's wife. ^\ e had dined altogether at 
a common friend's house in Leith, aud drank, 
danced, and sang, till late enougli. The 
night was dark, the claret had been good, 

and 1 thirsty ." Hence, at all events, 

it is not only evident that Burns considered 
himself free, but that he did so much against 
his own iucliuatio.i. The supposition that 
the Armours could, according to Scotch law, 
which recognised a promise as an actual 
marriage, have enforced the legal observation 
of all the duties incumbent upon a husband, 
is completely refuted by the performance of 
the public penance at their own instance, 
and by wliicli all c(;ntract between the parties 
was an lnjnUij amiulled, and by the persecu- 
tion which Jean Armour's friends instituted 
against Burns, to render the alienation irre- 
vocable. At any rate, at this |ierind there 
there was a tacit consent of all parties that 
either or both should be considered free. 

Page 47, Note 71. — Br. Adair has been 
dead many years. 

Page 47, Note 72. — A reference to 
Burns's own account of his wanderings, 
whicli may he gatliered from the letters of 
thii peridd, will serve to explain the matter 
more fully. The Jacobitism of Burns was 
the offspring of pure national pride and 
national tradition. The Stuarts were Scots, 
ard Scots who, in the earlier days of their 



dynasty, had retlecled some ghiry upon the 
land of their birth, and contributed sonio 
share to her sonr/s, above all. Their degene- 
racy was, by the way ; — the degradation of 
more recent Stuarts could not obliterate the 
charm which the patriotic enthusiasm was 
apt to fling about their very weaknesses. It 
is, however, well known that the same senti- 
ment of opposition which fed upon the name 
of Stuart, in Burns, gradually verged to the 
greater extreme of republicanism, as this 
charm faded before his imagination. The 
following remarks, quoted as they are from 
the memoranda of a former editor, will serve 
to furnish some additional elucidation. "It 
was probably at this time that certain ob- 
noxious stanzas of notoriety were written on 
a pane of glass in the apartment occupied 
by the poet and his friend : — 

'Here Stuarts once in triumph reigned. 
And laws for Scotia's weal ordained ; 
But now unroofed their palace stands, 
Their sceptre's swayed by other hands. 
The injured Stnart line is gone, 
A race outlandish fills the throne— 
An idiot race, to honour lost : 
Who know them best, despise them most.' 

Tliese lines have usually been attributed to 
Burns, notwithstanding an obvious want of 
that peculiar concentration and emphasis 
which he gave to all his effusions. A writer 
in the Paisley Magazine, December, 18.^8, 
gives the following more satisfactory ac- 
count of them, involving circumstances 
which reflect the brightest lustre on the 
character of the Ayrshire poet : — ' I'hey 
were not,' says this writer, ' the composi- 
tion of Bums, but of his friend Nicol. This 
we state,' he continues, ' from the testimony 
of those who themselves knew the fact as it 
truly stood, and who were well acquainted 
with the high-wrought feelings of honour 
and friendship which induced Burns to re- 
main silent uiuler the obl.')quy which their 
artiliatlon entailed upon him. » * * The in- 
dividual whose attention they first attracted 
was a clerk in the eniployment of the Carroii 
Iron Company, then travelling through the 
country collecting accounts, or receiving 
orders, who happened to arrive iiumediatcly 
after the departure of the poet and his 
friend. * * * . On inquiry he learned that 
the last occupant of the apartment was the 
far-famed Burns, and on this discovery 
he imiuiicliately transferred a copy of them 
to his memorandum-book of orders, made 
every person as wise as himself on the sub- 
ject, and poiiued an answer to them, which, 
with the lines themselves, soon spread 



4C4 



VOTES TO TKl': 



o'f*r tlie country, and found a place in 
every periodical of the day. To this poetic 
crtic of the Carron Works do we owe the 
first hint of Burns being the author of this 
tavern effusion. They who saw the writing 
on the glass know that it was not the hand- 
writing of the poet ; but this critic, who 
knew neither his autograph nor his person, 
chose to consider it as such, and so an- 
nounced it to the world. On his return to 
Stirling, Burns was both irritated and 
grieved to find that this idle and mischiev- 
ous tale had been so widely spread and so 
generally believed. The reason of the cold 
and constrained reception he met with from 
some distinguished friends, which at the time 
he could not occount for, was now explained, 
and he felt in all its bitterness the misery 
of being innocently blamed with a thing I 
which he despised as unworthy of his head 
and heart. To disavow the authorship was 
to draw down popular indignation on the 
head of Nicol — a storm which would have 
anihilated him. Kather than ruin the 
interests of that friend, he generously and 
magnanimously, or, as some less fervent 
mind may think, foolishly, devoted him- 
self to unmerited obloquy, by remaining 
silent, and suffering the story to circulate 
uncontradicted. The friend who was with 
Burns when he indignantly smashed the 
obnoxious pane with the butt end of his 
whip, and who was perfectly aware of the 
whole circumstances as they really stood, 
long and earnestly pleaded with him to con- 
tradict the story that had got wind, and 
injured him so mucli in public estimation. 
* ♦ * It was with a smile of peculiar 
melancholy that Burns made this noble and 

characteristic reply. ' I know, , I am 

not the author; but I'll be damned ere I 
betray the author. It would ruin him — he 
is my friend.' It is unnecessary to add, 
that to this resolution he ever after remained 
firm. " 

P AGE 47, Note 73.— The Mrs. Hamilton 
here alluded to, was the mother of Mr. 
tiavin Hamilton, of Mauchline, the constant 
correspondent of Burns. 

P.4.GE 48, Note 74. — Mrs. Bruce was 
somewhat mistaken about her family dignity; 
as the common ancestor of all the Brnces of 
Stirlingshire, Clackmannanshire, and Fife, is 
only known to have been a relation of Daviil 
II., and has never been supposed to stand 
higher in genealogy than as a descendant of a 
younger brother of the father of King Robert. 
The main line of the Clackmannan family, the 
head of the name in Scotland, became extinct i 
»u the person of Henry Bruce, the husband ' 



of this old lady, and is now represented by 
the Earl of Elgin, in whose house of Broom- 
hall the sword and helmet of the heroic king 
are yet preserved. Mrs. Katherine Bruce, 
daughter of Mr. Bruce of Newton, and 
widow of Henry Bruce of Clackmannan, died 
November 4, 1791, at the age of ninety-five. 
There is an interesting portrait of her, taken 
in 1777, in the possession of Mr. R. Scott 
Moncrieff, of Edinburgh. 

Page 48, Note 75,— The bard Brace 
was no longer living at this period: he died 
a few years before at an early age. 

Page 48, Note 76. — To Dr. Currie alone 
we are indebted for this contribution ; it is 
extracted from a letter addressed to himself 
by Dr. Adair. 

Page 49, Note 77. — This reasoning 
might be extended, with some modification, 
to objects of sight of every kind. To have 
formed beforehand a distinct picture in the 
mind, of any interesting person or thing, 
generally lessens the pleasure of the first 
meeting with them. Though this picture be 
not superior, or even equal to the reality, 
still it can never be expected to be an exact 
resemblance; and the disappointment felt at 
finding the object something different from 
what was expected, interrupts and diminishes 
the emotions that would otherwise be pro- 
duced. In such cases, the second or third 
interview gives more pleasure than the first. 
— See the Elements of the Philosophy of the 
Human Mind, by Mr. Stewart, p. 484. Such 
publications as The Guide to the Lakes, 
where every scene is described in the most 
minute manner, and sometimes with consi- 
derable exaggeration of language, are in this 
point of view objectionable. 

Page 49, Note 78. — This young lady, 
subsequently married to Dr. Adair, was Miss 
Katherine Hamilton, sister to the poet'a 
intimate friend, Mr. Gavin Hamilton. 

Page 49, Note 79. — Amongst others, in 
the lines entitled "lines on scaring some 
water-fowl in Loch Turit ; " of the date of 
these, however, there is some doubt, for 
there is more reason to attribute them to a 
previous visit to the Highlands. If this 
conjecture be correct, they were probably 
written on the occasion of the poet's visit to 
Ochtertyre, in Perthshire, (as it is in the im- 
mediate vicinity of this place that Loch- 
Turit IS situated), in the month of June. 
Allusions and descriptions of a similar nature 
are to be found in the "Lines written with a 
pencil, standing by the Fall of Fyers," and 
in those " Written at an Inn at Kenmore." 

Page 50, Note 80. — Such an account 
would have been most applicable, as regards 



LIFE OF BURXS. 



465 



uie lirst iiitrodui.tion of the poet into hi^h 
society. But in the winter which preceded 
this period, lie had been the hon of the best 
society of Edinburgh. 

Page 50, Note 81. — The humble petition 
of Bruar Water. 

Page 50, Note 82. — This account is 
derived from a letter addressed by Mr. 
Walker to ilr. Cunningham ; and it is to 
the latter to whom we are indebted for this, 
as well as for so many other interesting par- 
ticulars relating to Burns, The letter in 
question is dated from Perth, October 24th, 
1797. 

Page 50, Note 83. — This gentleman, as 
is well known, lield an important oiKce in 
the administration of William Pitt, and was 
subsequently raised to the peerage by the 
title of Lord Melville. At this time he was 
better known as the Rt. Hon. Henry Dundas. 

Page 51, Note 84. — Such is the pur- 
port of a letter addressed to Dr. Currie, by 
Dr. Couper of Focahbers ; and it is to the 
former that we are immediately indebted for 
this contribution. 

Page 51, Note 85. — The measure in 
which these lines are composed, was intended 
to accomodate them to Burns' very favourite 
Scotch air of Morag. 

Page 51, Noris 86. — The subjoined par- 
ticulars, published by Mr. Lockhart, may be 
of some interest in respect of this period of 
our Biography. "At this time the publica- 
tion called Johnsoii's Musical Museum was 
conducted at Edinburgh, and the Editor 
appears to have early prevailed upon Burns to 
atf'ird him his assistance in the arrangement 
of his material." [This, indeed, is evident 
from the letters addressed by Burns himself 
10 his ditferent friends, which will be found 
amoiigst his correspondence of this period, 
and in which he mentions the earnest interest 
wnicli lie was takuig in the piiblication, and 
the request of its editor that he should 
do so.] " Though Green r/rotv the Rushes O ! 
IS the only song which is entirely his (Burns), 
and which appears in the first volume, pub- 
U lied in 1787, many of the old ballads 
included in that volume bear traces of his 
hand." [Had ]\Ir. Lockhart examined a 
little more closely, or, had he possessed the 
niattrial which has since fallen into our 
hands, he would have discovered that there 
are, at le;ist. three more of which no earthly 
trace could be found, save in the handiwork 
of the Ayrshire Bard; and that the majority, 
even the work of his favourite Skinner, had 
received adilitiors and touche" frutn his hand. 
At any rate, it was a very pardonable niis- 
representatiou ; tor, it must be confessed, 
II H 



that the collection is, perhaps, onh the more 
meritorious for his contributions.] " But in 
the second volume," continues Jlr. LocKhart, 
"which appeared in March 1788, we find 
no fewer than five songs by Burns : — two 
that have been already mentioned {Clarinda, 
and How pleasant the Banks of the clear 
whidbuj Devon), and three far better than 
them, namely, Theniel Memie's Bonny 
Mari/, that grand lyric which runs as 
follows : — 

Farewell ye dungeons dark and strong. 

The wretch's destiny ; — 
Macphersou's time will not be long 

On yonder gallows' tree, — 

both of which performances bespeak the 
recent impressions of his highland visit, — 
and, lastly. Whistle, a;:d I will come to thee, 
my lad. Burns had been, from his youth 
upwards, an enthusia.stic lover of the old 
minstrelsy and music of his country ; but 
he now studied both subjects with far better 
opportunities and appliances than he could 
have commanded previously ; and it is from 
this time that we may date his ambition to 
transmit his own poetry to posterity, in 
eternal association witli those exquisite airs, 
which had hitherto, in far too many in- 
stances, been coupled to verses which did 
not deserve to be immortal. It is very well 
known that from this time Burns com- 
posed very few pieces but songs ; and 
whether we ought or ought not, to regret 
that such was the case, must wlmlly dcpt-iid 
upon the estimate which we muke of his 
songs as compared with his other poems : — 
a point on wliich critics are to this hour 
divided, and on which neither they, nor 
their descendants or successors, are very 
likely to agree. Mr. Walker, who is one of 
those who lament Burns's comparative 
dereliction of the species of composition 
which he most cultivated in the early days 
of his inspiration, suggests, very sensibly, 
that if Burns had not taken to song-writing, 
he would probably have written little or 
nothing, amidst the various temptations to 
company and dissipation which now, and 
from this time forward surrounded him, — 
to say nothing of the active duties of life 
I in which he was at length about to he 
I encaged" — Loci411akt. To this Mr. Lock- 
i hart might have added, or Mr. Walker 
I might liave suggested, the peculiarly re>tli'ss 
and desultory nature of his disposition, which 
having been harrassed and iciideied more 
constantly unsettled by a series of siicres- 
sive disappointments, vexation';, cinban-as 
ments. &c., forbad the leiiuthe, ui nrjr,!..! n( 



46-: 



NOTES TO THE 



uny larpe suliject, and which rendered verse 
a kind of safety valve whereby the ebulli- 
tion of vexation, sorrow, or excitement of 
any kind found vent, and iu which the 
brilliancy of a momentary flash of imagery 
found life and light like a passing meteor. 
[Ed.] 

Page 51, Note 87. — Burns was occupy- 
ing apartments in the house, or rather 
cliambers of Mr. William Cruikshaiiks, one 
of the masters of the high school. The 
portion in which Burns resided overlooked 
the enclosure in the rear of the Register 
House. The house was at that time called 
No. 2, St. James's Square, (since No. 30,) 
and it was the top story which was in the 
occupation of Mr. C. It was in the month 
of December of this year (1787) that Burns 
first met and became acquainted with the 
celebrated Clarinda (Mrs. Mac Leliose) at 
a tea party in the house of Miss Ninino 
(of some literary celebrity) in Allison's 
Square, Potter Row. ]\Irs. Mac Lehose, 
whose personal beauty, amiable disposition, 
and remarkable taste and intelligence made 
so deep an impression upon the poet, was 
at this time (and had so been since the deser- 
tion of her husband, who had betaken him- 
self to the West Indies in quest of fortune), 
residing with her young children in Edin- 
burgh upon very limited means, chiefly 
supplied liy the friends or members of her 
own family. The charms of her person 
and conversation, added to the peculiar 
interest of her story, which involved the 
tender chord of unhappy attachment, at 
once wrought upon Burns, and one of those 
peculiar intimacies sprung up between them, 
which could only be understood by persons 
of equally refined sensibilities and purity ol 
principle. The correspondence between them 
was thenceforward almost as ardent as it 
was constant and innocent, as may be 
gathered from the letters included in the 
correspondence of the poet. It has been 
said that the publication of Mrs. Mac 
Lehose's letters to Burns, and of those of 
Burns to her, was to be regretted, and was 
to be attributed to the indiscretion of her 
friends. It does not at all appear that she 
was opposed to their publication after her 
death, nor could any thing serve to reflect 
higher honour upon her than the contents 
of this reciprocal correspondence. 

Page 52, Note 88. — The commencement 
of this lyric piece was subsequently intro- 
duced into the Chevallier's Lament, and the 
lines so introduced are remarkable for the 
masmificence of their imagery. 

Page 52, Note 89. — Mr. Ramsay was 



an enthusiastic student of the classics, and 
had his house and grounds garnished 
thickly with passages of aucieiit wisdom. It 
is necessary to distinguish his house, situated 
near Stirling, from Ochtertyre near Crielf, 
the seat of Sir William Murray, where Burns 
was also entertaiued. Mr. Ramsay died 
at his house of Ochtertyre, ilaich 2, 1814. 

Page 52, Note 90. — Extract of a letter 
from Mr. Ramsay to Dr. Currie. This 
incorrigibility of I5urns extended, however, 
only to his poems printed before he arrived 
in Edinburgh; for, iu regard to his nn- 
publislied poems, he was amenable to criti- 
cism, of which many proofs might be 
given. 

Page 52, Note 91. — Patrick Miller, 
Esq., had realised, as a banker m Edinburgh, 
the means of purchasing the estate of Dais- 
winton on the Nith. He was a man of 
enlightened mind, and much mechanical inge- 
nuity, the latter of which qualities he dis- 
played in the invention of a vessel propeMed 
by paddled wheels, to which, at the sugges- 
tion of his children's preceptor, Mr. Taylor, 
the steam engine was afterwards applied, so 
that he was enabled to make the Jirsl ascer- 
tained exemplification of steam namyulion 
upon a small lake near his house, in October 
1788. Some discouraging circumstances, 
unconnected with the invention, were the 
sole means of preventing him from bringing 
it into practical operation — an honour 
which was reserved for the American 
Fulton. Mr. Miller died, December 9th, 
1815. 

Page 52, Note 92.— Mr. Heron states 
that the peet's appointment to the excise 
was owing to the kindness of Mr. Alexander 
Wood, surgeon, (affectionately remeniliered 
in Edinburgh by the appellation of Sandy 
Wood), who having, while in attendance 
on Burns for Ids bruised limb, heard him 
express his wishes, waited on Mr. Graham, 
of Fiiitry, one of the commissioners, by 
whom the name of the poet was iinraediatly 
put upon the roll. 

Page 53, Note 93.— The Edinburgh 
Magazine for June 1799, contains tlie follow- 
ing statement, apparently from authority : — 
" j\Ir. Jililler offered Mr. Burns the choice 
of several farms on the estate of Dalswinton, 
which were at that time out of lease. Mr. 
Burns gave the preference to the farm of 
Ellisland, most charmingly situated on the 
banks of the Nith, containing upwards of a 
hundred acres of most excellent land" (this 
must be taken with a deduction), " then 
worth a rent of from eighty to a hundred 
pounds. Jlr. Aliller, alter showing Mr 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



467 



Burns what the farm cost him to a farthing, 
allowed him to tix the rental himself, and 
the endurance of the lease. A lease was 
accordingly given to the poet on his own 
terms, namely, for fifty-seven years, at the 
very low rent of fifty pounds. And, in addi- 
tion to tliis, when Mr. Burns signed the tack, 
Mr. Miller presented him with two hundred 
pounds, to enable liim to enclose and im- 
prove his farm. It is usual to allow tenants 
a year's rent for this purpose, but the sum 
Mr. jMiller gave him was at least four years' 
rent. Sir. Miller has since sold the farm to 
John M'jNIorrine, Esq., at nineteen hundred 
pounds, leaving to himself seven acres on 
the Dalswiuton side of the river." Mr. 
Lockhart, on the other hand, states that the 
lease was for four successive terms, of nine- 
teen years each, at fifty pounds for the 
first three years' crops, and seventy for all 
the rest ; Mr. Jliller giving three hundred 
pounds to renew the farm-house and offices, 
and agreeing to defray tlie expense of any 
plantations which Burns might make on the 
banks of the river. 

F.\GE 54, Note 94. — In apposite illus- 
tration of the feelings roused by this cir- 
cumstance, we have the following hues 
which celebrate the moment. 

I hae a wife o' my ain, 
I'll partake wi' iiae-body; 

I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 
I'll gie cuckold to nae-body. 

I hae a penny to spend. 

There ! — thanks to nae-body ; 

I hae nae-thing to lend. 
I'll borrow frae nae-body. 

I am nae -body's lord, 
I'll be slave to nae-body ; 

I hae a guid braid sword, 
I'll tak dunts frae nae-body. 

I'll be merry and free, 
I'll be sad for nae-body; 

If nae-body care for me, 
I'll care for nae-body. 

Page 54, Note 95. — The poem 'of The 
Whistle celebrates a bacchanalian contest 
among three gentlemen of Nithsdale, where 
Burns appears as umpire. 'M.i. Riddel died 
before our bard, who wrote some elegiac 
verses to his memory, entitled, Sonnet on 
the Death of Robert Riddel. From him, 
and from all the members of his family. 
Burns received not kiudncss only, but friend- 
Bhip ; and the society he met in general at 
Friar's Carse was calculated to improve his 
habits as well as his manners. Mr. Fergus- 



son, of Craigdarroch, so well known for hw 
eloquence and social talents, fell a victiui to 
an accidental injury occasioned by a fall fro'u 
his chaise, according to some, after the (ieu'h 
of Burns, but more autlieuticatly, tlu-i's 
months before that event, viz., in the month 
of March, 1796. Sir Robert Laurie, tlie 
third person in the drama, has since been 
engaged in contests of a bloodier nature, 
and outlived the last century. 

Page 54, Note 96. — Respecting Burns's 
appointment to the Excise, Mr. \V. Nicol 
wrote in the following terms to Mr. R. 
Ainslie, from Edinburgh, August 13, 1790: 
— " As to Burns, poor folks, like you and I, 
must resign all thoughts of future corres- 
pondence with him. To the pri.'e of ap- 
plauded genius is now superadded ilie pride 
of office. He was lately raised to the dignity 
of an Examiner of Excise, which is a step 
preparative to attaining that of a Supervisor. 
Therefore, we can expect no less tlian that 
his language will become perfectly Jluraluin 
— ' odi profanum vulgus et arceo.' However, 
I will see him in a fortnight hence, and if I 
find that Beelzebub has inflated his heart, 
like a bladder, with pride, and given it the 
fullest distension that vanity can effect, you 
and I will burn him in effigy, and write a 
satire, as bitter as gall and wormwood, 
against government for employing its enemies, 
like Lord North, to effect its purposes. 
This will be taking all the revenge in our 
power." 

Page 5o, Note 97. — Some misapprehen- 
sion, perhaps, exists with respect to Burns's 
qualifications for ordinary business. The 
real state of the case we take to have been 
this : that Burns disliked the drudgery of 
common worldly affairs, but was by no means 
detiuent in the sagacity, observation, and 
perseverance required from a man of the 
world. Colonel Fullerton has paid him a 
compliment on a farmer-like piece of acumea 
in a note to his View of Agriculture in 
Ayrshire, 1793 : — "In order," he says, "to 
prevent the danger arising from horned 
cattle in studs and straw-yards, the best 
mode is to cut out the budding knob, or 
root of the horn, while the calf is very young. 
This was suggested to me by Mr. Robert 
Burns, whose general talents are no less 
conspicuous than the poetic powers which 
have done so much honour to the county 
where he was born." 

Page 55, Note 98. — This bowl wag 
made of the stone of which Inverary House 
is built, the mansion of the f iinily of Argyle 
The stone is the lapis ollaris. The punch- 
bowl passed through the hands of Mr 



41 



i6e> 



NOTES TO THE 



A'lPV.inffer CiiniiiiigliaTn, jeweller, iu Edin- 
burtrh, to those of Mr. Hastie, present 
representative of Paisley in parliament, who 
is said to have refused three hundred f^uineas 
for it — a sum that would have set the poet 
on his lej^s for ever. 

Page 56, Note 99.— Tliis ballad begins 
with the following well penned lines : — 

The moon had climbed the highest hill 
Which rises o'er the source of Dee, 

And from the eastern summit shed 
Its silver light on tower and tree. 

Page 56, Note 100. — Mr. Gordon has 
since become Lord Viscount Kenmure. 

Page 56, Note 101. — A very expressive 
Scotch term, which, as will be seen in the 
glossary, signifies the brink or margin of 
flowing water. 

Page 57, Note 102.— The identical Lord 
Selkirk, of whom Sir Walter Scott has 
furnished us with a smart and interesting 
anecdote. 

Page 58, Note 103.— Mr. Chambers's 
vaUiable contributions to the anecdotes and 
traditions relating to Burns, furnish us with 
tlie following collectanea ; — 

" Mr. Ladyman, an English commercial 
traveller, alighting one afternoon, in the year 
1791, at Brownhill, a stage about thirteen 
miles from Dumfries, was informed by the 
landlord that Mr. Burns, the celebrated poet, 
was in the house, and that he had now the 
best possible opportunity of being introduced 
to tlie company of the cleverest man in 
Scotland. Mr. Ladyman immediately re- 
quested the honour of an introduction, and 
was forthwith shown into the room in which 
the bard was sitting with two other gentle- 
men of the road. The landlord, who was a 
forward sort of a man, and stood upon no 
ceremony with Burns, presented Mr. Lady- 
man ; and while the poet rose and received 
the stranger traveller with that courtesy 
which always marked his conduct towards 
strangers, sat down himself along with his 
guests, and mixed in the conversation. 

When Mr. Ladyman entered the inn, it 
was about two o'clock. The poet had been 
drinking since mid-day with the two gentle- 
men, and was slightly elevated with liquor, 
but not to such a degree as to make any 
particular alteration upon his voice or manner. 
He did not speak much, or take any eager 
share in the conversation. He frequently 
leant down his head upon the edge of the 
table, and was silent for a considerable time, 
as if he had been suffering bodily pain. 
However, when opportunity occurred, he 
would start up, and say something shrewd 



or decisive upon the subject in agita- 
tion. 

About an hour after "Sir. Ladyman arrived, 
dinner was presented, consisting of beans 
and bacon, &c., of whicii tlie landlord partook, 
like the rest of the company, evidently to 
the displeasure of the poet. During the 
course of the subsequent toddy, Mr. Lady- 
man ventured to request of Burns to let the 
company have a small specimen of his poetry 
upon any subject he liked to think of — 'just 
anytliing, in short — whatever might come 
uppermost — doggrel or not.' Burns was 
never offended by any solicitation of this 
sort, when it was made in a polite manner, 
and with proper deference to his own good 
pleasure. In the present case, he granted 
the request so readily, that, almost imme- 
diately after Mr. Ladyman had done speaking, 
he deliberately uttered the following lines : — ■ 

At Brownhill we always get dainty good 

cheer. 
And plenty of Bacon, each day in the year ; 
We've all things that's iioat, and mostly m 

season — 
But why always Bacon ? — come, give me a 

reason ! 

It must be understood that Bacon was the 
name of the landlord, whose habit of intruding 
into all compauies was thus cleverly ridiculed. 

As far as ^Mr. Ladyman can recollect. 
Burns pronounced the lines without the 
least hesitation of voice, and apparently 
without finding any difficulty in embodying 
the thought in rhyme. No effort seemed 
necessary. He happened to have the glass 
iu his hand at the time the request was 
made, and so trifling was the exertion of 
intellect apparently required, that he did 
not put it down upon the table, but waited 
till he concluded the epigram, and then 
drank off his liquor amidst the roar of ap- 
plause that ensued. The landlord had retired 
some little time before, otherwise Burns 
would not, perhaps, have chosen him as the 
subject of his satire. There is no doubt, 
however, that he would see and hear enough 
of it afterwards : for Burns, at the earnest 
entreaties of the company, immediately com- 
mitted it to the breath of Fame, by writing 
it upon one of the panes in the window 
behind his chair. — Extract from an early 
M.S. nole-hook. 

The acquaintance which Burns maintained 
with a considerable number of the gentry of 
his neighbourhood, was not favourable to 
him. They frequently sent liim game from 
their estates, and disdained not to come to 
his house to partake of it. The large quan- 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



469 



tities of nim which flowed into his stores 
gratuitously, in consequence of seizures, as 
was then the custom, were also injurious. 
Yet, as far as circumstances left him to his 
own inclinations, he was a man of simple, as 
well as kindly domestic habits. As he was 
often detained by company Iroia tne aumer 
provided for him by his wife, she sometunes, 
on a conjecture of his probable absence, 
would not prepare that meal for him. When 
he chanced to come home and find no dinner 
ready, he was never in the least troubled or 
irritated, but would address himself with 
the greatest cheerfulness to any succeda- 
neum that could be readily set before him. 
They generally had abundance of good Dun- 
lop cheese, sent to them by their Ayrshire 
friends. The poet would sit down to that 
wholesome fare, with bread and butter, and 
his book by his side, and seem, to any casual 
visitor, such as ]\liss Lcwars, as happy as a 
courtier at the feast of kings. 

He was always anxious that his wife 
should have a neat and genteel appearance. 
In consequence, as she alleged, of the duties 
of nursing and attending to her infants, she 
could not help being sometimes a little slo- 
venly. Burns disliked this, and not only 
remonstrated against it in a gentle way, but 
did the utmost that in him lay to counteract 
it, by buyuig for her the best clothes he 
could afford. Any little novelty in female 
dress was almost sure to meet with patronage 
from Burns — all with the aim of keeping up 
a spirit for neat dressing in his wife. She 
was, for instance, one of the first persons in 
Dumfries who appeared in a dress of ging- 
ham — a stuff now common to all, but, at its 
first introduction, rather costly, and almost 
exclusively used by persons of superior con- 
dition." 

Page 58, Note 104.— Mr. Lockhart 
enters into a long discussion of the poet's 
political sentiments, and the nature of the 
circumstances here alluded to. He leaves 
the whole matter in a state of doubt, for 
w Inch, we think, there is no just occasion. 
Burns unquestionably felt as a zealous par- 
tisan of the French Revolution. A mind so 
generous and upright as his could have taken 
no other course. That such was the case, 
his " Vision" at Lincluden College, his In- 
scription for an altar of Independence, and 
his Tree of Liberty, introduced into the pre- 
sent edition of his poems, are sufficient proof: 
more may be found iu some specimens of an 
unpublislied poem given by Mr. Cunning- 
ham ; — 
" Why should we idly waste our prime 

Repeating our oppressions? 



Come, rouse to arras, 'tis now the time 

To punish past transgressions. 
'Tis said that kings can do no wrong — 

Their murderous deeds deny it ; 
And, since from us their power is sprung, 

We have a right to try it. 
r\nw eacn true patriot's song shall be. 
Welcome death or libertie. 

« • • 

Proud bishops next we will translate. 

Among priest-crafted martyrs ; 
The guillotine on peers shall wait. 

And knights shall hang in garters ; 
Those despots long have trod us down. 

And judges are their engines — 
Such wretched minions of a crown 

Demand the people's vengeance. 
* • • 

The golden age we'll then revive, 

Each man v.'ill be a brother; 
In harmony we all shall live, 

And share the earth together. 
In virtue trained, enlightened youth 

Wdl love each fellow-creature ; 
And future years shall prove the truth 

That man is good by nature. 
Then let us toast, with three times three. 
The reign of peace aud libertie." 

A lady with whom a recent editor oi 
Burns's works, once conversed, remembered 
being present in the theatre of Dumfries, 
during the heat of the French Revolution, 
on which occasion, the poet, somewhat heated 
with liquor, entered the pit. Upon the 
orchestra, striking up the national anthem, 
the company, and audience of the theatre 
rose, with the single exception of Burns, 
who loudly shouted fa ira. An uproar 
ensued, and the poet was obliged to leave 
the theatre. The apologists of the govern- 
ment who, say what they will, neglected 
and slighted the purest genius of his age, 
make escapades of this nature their excuse. 
They attempt, however, to adduce the 
testimony of Mr. Alexander Findlater, the 
officer under whom Burns served in the 
Excise, to show that the most harmless re- 
buke only, was levelled at the unruly and 
independent spirit of the bard. However 
this may be, his promotion was very much 
retarded, although it is admitted that 
ultimately it was not prevented. 

Page 59, Note 105. — Mr. Lockhart has 
favoured us with a most interesting anecdote 
respecting the effect of the political opinions 
of Burns upon his social position. To the 
shame of the Scottish Whiggism be it re- 
corded. "Mr. David MacuUoch, a son of 
the Laird of Ardwell, has told me that he 



470 



NOTES TO THE 



was seldom more grieved, than when riding 
into Dumfries one fine summer's evening, to 
attend a county ball, he saw Burns walking 
alune, on the shady side of the principal 
street of the town, while the opposite part 
was gay with successive groups of gentlemen 
and ladies, all drawn together for the festi- 
vities of the night, not one of whom appeared 
willing to recognise him. The horseman 
dismoimted and joined Burns, who, on his 
proposing to him to cross the street, said, 
' Nay, nay, my young friend— that's all over 
now ;' and quoted, after a pause, some verses 
of Lady Grizzel Baillie's pathetic ballad : — 

'His bonnet stood ance fu' fair on his brow, 
Uis auld ane look'd better than mony 

ane's new ; 
But now he lets't wear ony way it will hing, 
And casts himsel dowie upon the corn-bing. 

Oh were we young, as we ance hae been. 
We should hae been galloping douu on yon 

green. 
And linking it ower the lily-white lea — 
And werena my heart licjht I wad die.' 

It was little in Burns's character to let 
his feelings on certain subjects escape in this 
fashion. He immediately, after citing these 
verses, assumed the sprightliness of his most 
pleasing manner; and, taking his young 
friend home with him, entertained him very 
agreeably until the hour of the ball arrived, 
with a bowl of his usual potation, and bon- 
nie Jean's singing of some verses which he 
had recently composed." — LocivHARt. 

Page 59, Note 106.— See the poem enti- 
tled The Dumfries Volunteers. — Currie. 
Previous to one of the public meetings of 
this body^a regular field-day, which was to 
terminate in a grand dinner — it was hinted to 
the bard that something would be expected 
from him in the shape of a song or speech- 
some glowing tribute in honour of the patrio- 
tic cause that had linked them together, and 
eke in honour of the martial glory of old 
Scotland. The poet said nothing, but as 
silence gives consent, it was generally expected 
that he would share them on the occasion of 
<he approaching festival with another lyric 
or energetic oration. The day at length 
arrived ; dinner came and passed, and the 
usual loyal toasts were drunk with all the 
honours. Now came the poet's turn ; every 
eye was fixed upon him, and, slowly lifting 
his glass, he stood up and looked aroimd 
him with an arch, indescribable expression of 
countenance, 'Gentlemen,' said he, 'may 
we never see the French, nor the French see 
us!' The toast fell like a 'wet blanket,' as 



Moore says, on the hopes of the Voluii. 
teers. 

'Is that a'?' they muttered one to another, 
dropping down to their seats — to use the 
words of my informant, who was present — 
'like so many old wives at afield-preaching; 
' Is that the grand speech or fine poem that 
we were to have from him ? — but we could 
hae expected nae better!' Not a few, how- 
ever, 'raxed their jaws,' as the Ettrick Shep- 
herd saj's, at the homely truth and himiour 
of the poet's sentiment, heightened by the 
first rueful aspect (A the company ; and, long 
after, in his jovial moments. Burns used to 
delight in telling how he had cheated tlie 
volunteers of Dumfries." — R. Carrutheks, 
in the Edinburgh Literary Journal. 

Page 59, Note 107. — These lines wer? 
published in the periodical collection of Scot- 
tish songs produced under the title of John- 
soit's Musical Museum. They bear date about 
1791, and, as the text is given above, they 
bear the latest corrections of the poet. It 
is one of the best of Burns's productions, 
but its merit failed to be strongly or popu- 
larly observed until the first few years of the 
present century, when the martial glory of 
Great Britain had grown of more general 
admiration, and had enlisted a more univer- 
sal enthusiasm, such as to overwhelm all 
minor political predilections. It is, perhaps, 
on account of this tardy popularity that 
Burns was readily dissuaded at the time 
from reprinting it separately, in extenso, with 
a new and appropriate air. 

Page 61, Note 108. — According to the 
current story which is generally received at 
Dumfries, it was in this condition of intoxi- 
cation that he sat down on the door step of 
a hotise on his way homeward, and fell fast 
asleep. Exposed to the inclemency of the 
season and night air, and doubly susceptible, 
owing to the exhausted condition of his ner- 
vous system, and to the deleterious effect of 
liquor, he became so chilled as to induce a 
fatal disorder. 

Page 61, Note 109. — This was Mrs. 
Riddel, of Woodlee Park. 

Page 62, Note 110. — According to Mr. 
Cunningham, Burns expired after a violent 
and convulsive struggle, " rising at the last 
moment, and springing to the bottom of the 
bed." Mr. Cunningham, however, it is ad- 
mitted, supplies lis with this information on 
hearsay. Another biographer denies the 
possibility of such an effort, stating that 
Burns was in "no condition" (i. e. too ex- 
hausted), to have made such a movement. 
Were the question of any import.ince, and 
no better refuted than by the possibilUy 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



471 



being called in question, Mr. Cunningham 
might certainly overthrow the denial of his 
statement. But there is an account for 
which we are indebted to Dr. Maxvvell, the 
medical attendant, who was at the bedside 
of the poet, in which it is averred that poor 
Burns expired with perfect calmness, and in 
ajiparent consciousness, after some hours of 
low muttering delirium. 

Page G3, Note 111.— Mr. Whyte is the 
author of a poem entitled St. Guerdon's 
Well, and of the piece entitled a tribute to 
the memory of Burns. 

Page Go, Note 112. — Dr. Currie men- 
tions that Burns died free of debt Accord- 
ing to another biographer, however, " the 
strict fact that he owed but £7. 4s. at that 
period, serves, like the exception with the 
nde, to confirm the report of the biogra- I 
pher. It is also worthy of notice that he i 
left a collection of books, estimated as worth I 
ninety-two pounds. The terror of a jail, I 
which haunted him a short while before his 
death, and afterwards recurred in delirium, 
was excited by a pressing note for payment 
of his regimentals, which had been sent to 
him by Mr. David M'illiamson, a Dumfries 
shopkeeper — a person, we have been assured, 
who ne\er could have resorted to any ex- 
treme nieasuie with his illustrious debtor. 
Five pounds, requested from and promptly 
sent by Mr. Thomson a few days before his 
death, removed the cause of the terror, but 
unfortunately did not obhterate the feeling 
which it had raised." 

Page 63, Note 113.— This Mr. Stobie 
was in the ordinary service of the Excise as 
late as 1818, at Pinkie Salt Pans. He is 
said to have spoken of Burns's musical ac- 
complishments in the following terms : — 
" He sang like a nightingale ; but he had 
the voice of a boar." The expression ap- 
pears contradictory ; but, by the complimen- 
tary pirt of it, he only understood, in all 
probability, the readiness with which tiie 
poet would attune his voice when requested 
to do so. [This anecdote has been told by 
some one else of two different persons, who, 
although, they affected to shun Burns as a 
reprobate whilst living (though God wot, the 
poet would certainly not have sought their 
company), were prone to boast of him as lui 
acqnainUmcc when his reputation alone re- 
mained to hallow and endear popular recol- 
lections. I am, therefore, mucli inclined to 
exonerate Mr. Stobie from an ill-natured 
remark, which seems scarcely in accordance 
with the tenor of his conduct.] 

Page 63, Note 114.— The death of 
Burns occurred on the 21st of July, and he 

41^ 



lost consciousness as early as the 16th, from 
which time he continued almost continually 
unconscious and rambling. The letter from 
IMr. Graham could not, in all probability, as 
cross country posts went at that time, have 
been delivered until the 15th, for it was only 
dated on the 13th. 

Page 04, Note 115. — "During his resi- 
dence in Glasgow, a characteristic instance 
occurred of the way in which he would re- 
press petulance and presumption. A young 
man of some literary pretensions, who had 
newly commenced business as a bookseller, 
had been in the practice of writing notices 
of Burns's Poems in a style so flippant, and 
withal so patronising, as to excite feelings ia 
the poet towards him very different from 
what he counted upon. Reckoning, however, 
upon a very grateful reception from Burns, 
he was particularly anxious for an early in- 
troduction to his company, and, as his friends 
knew, had been at some pains to prepare 
himself for making dazzling impressions 
upon the Ayrshire ploughman — as it was 
then the fashion, amongst a certain kind of 
literary fi)lks, to call the poet. At the 
moment the introduction took place. Burns 
was engaged in one of his hai)piest and most 
playful veins with my friend and another 
intimate or two ; but, upon the gentleman's 
presentation, who advanced in a manner 
sutliciently affable, the 'ploughman' assumed 
an air of such dignified coldness, as froze 
him into complete silence during the time 
he remained in his company." — Correspond- 
ent of the Scotsmnn, 1828. 

Page 65, Note 116.— Smellie's Philc 
sojihyof Natural History. 

Page 65^ Note 117. — The subjoined 
passage quoted from Quintilian, Inst. Orat. 
ii, 9, is appositely parallel to the sense of 
this observation : — An vero Isocrates cum 
de Ephoro atque Theopompo sic judicaret, 

Ut ALTEia FKENIS, ALTER! CALCARIBUS 

OPUS ESSE diceret ; aut in illo lentiore tar- 
ditatem, aut in illo pene prsecipiti con- 
citationeni adjuvandum docendo existimavit, 
cum alterum alterius natura miscendum 
arbitraretur? Imbeciliis tanien ingeniis sane 
sic obsequendum sit, ut tantum in id quo 
vocat natura, ducantur. Ita enim, quod 
solum possunt, melius efficient." 

Page 66, Note 118. — The reader must 
not suppose it is contended, that the same 
individual could have excelled in all these 
directions. A certain degree of instruction 
and practice, is necessary to excellence in 
every one, and life is too short to admit 
of one man, however great his talents, 
acquiring this in all of them. It is only 



472 



'"'t Tjl V 



asserted, that the same talents, difl'ereiiiiy 
applied, might have succeeded in any one, 
though, perhaps, not equally well iu each. 
And, after all, this position requires certain 
limitations, which the reader's candour 
and judgment wdl supply. In supposing 
that a great poet might have made a great 
orator, the physical qualities necessary 
to oratory are pre-supposed. In supposing 
that a great orator might have made a great 
poet, it is a necessary condition, that he 
should have devoted himself to poetry, and 
that he should have acquired a proficiency 
in metrical numbers, which by patience and 
attention may be acquired, though the 
want of it has embarrassed and chilled many 
of the first efforts of true poetical genius. 
In supposing that Homer might have led 
armies to victory, more, indeed, is assumed 
than the physical qualities of a general. To 
these must be added that hardihood of 
mind, that coolness in the midst of difficulty 
and danger, which great poets and orators 
are found sometimes, but not always, to 
possess. The nature of the institutions of 
Greece and Rome produced more instances 
of single individuals who excelled in various 
departments of active and speculative life, 
than occur in modern Europe, where the 
employments of men are more subdivided. 
Many of the greatest warriors of antiquity 
e.xcelled in literature and in oratory. That 
they had the minds of great poets also, will 
be admitted, when the qualities are justly 
appreciated which are necessary to excite, 
combine, and command the active energies 
of a great body of men ; to rouse that en- 
thusiasm which sustains fatigue, hunger, and 
the inclemencies of the elements, and which 
triumphs over the fear of death, the most 
powerful instinct of our nature. 

The authority of Cicero may be appealed 
to, in favour of the close connection between 
the poet and the orator. " Elst enim 
finitimus oratori poeta, numeris adstrictior 
paulo, verborum autuin licentia liberior," 
&c. — De Okator. lib. i. c. 16. See also 
lib. iii. c. 7. It is true, the example of 
Cicero may be quoted against his opinion. 
His attempts in verse, which are praised 
by Plutarch, do not seem to have met tlie 
approbation of Juvenal, or of some others. 
Cicero probably did not take sufficient 
time to leavn the art of the poet ; but that 
he had the affl.alus necessary to poetical 
excellence, may be abundantly proved from 
his compositions in prose. On theother hand, 
nothing i? more clear, than that, in the 
character of a great poet, all the mental 
qualities of iui orator are included. It is 



said by Quintihau, of Homer, " Omr.ibu.i 
eloquentiae partibus exemplum et ortum de- 
dit." — Lib. i. 47. The study of Homer is 
therefore recommended to the orator, as ot 
the first importance. Of the two sublime 
poets in our own language, who are hardly 
inferior to Homer, Shakspeare and Milton, 
a similar recommendation may be given. 
It is scarcely necessary to mention how 
much an acquaintance with them has 
availed the great orator who is now the 
pride and ornament of the English bar, a 
character that may be appealed to with 
singular propriety, when we are contending 
for the universality of genius. 

The identity, or at least the great simi- 
larity, of the talents necessary to excellence 
in poetry, oratory, painting, and war, will 
be admitted by some who will be iuclined 
to dispute the extension of the position 
to science or natural knowledge. On this 
occasion, I may quote the following obser- 
vations of Sir William Jones, whose own 
example will, however, far exceed in weight 
the authority of his precepts : — " Abul Ola 
had so flourishing a reputation, that several 
persons of uncommon genius were ambi- 
tious of learning the art of poetry from so 
able an instructor. His most illustrious 
scholars were Feleki and Khakani, who were 
no less eminent for their Persian composi- 
tions than for their skill in every branch of 
pure and mixed mathematics, and particu- 
larly ill astronomy — a striking proof that a 
sublime poet may become master of any 
kind of learning which he chooses to 
profess ; since a tine imagination, a lively 
wit, an easy and copious style, cannot 
possibly obstruct the acquisitior of any 
science whatever, but must necessarily 
assist him in his studies, and shorten his 
labour." — Sir IVilliam Jones's Works, vol. iu 
p. 317. 

Page 67, Note 119. — Tliese strictures 
may, however, be very considerably extended. 
Cobbett is not the only philosojiher who lias 
revealed the deleterious properties of other 
stimulants, or of other productions, which 
are, to all intents and purposes, employed as 
such. There are a great number of other 
substances which may be considered under 
this point of view — tobacco, tea, and coffee, 
are of the number. These substances essen- 
tially differ from each other in their qualities ; 
and an inquiry into the particular effects of 
each on the health, morals, and happiness of 
those who use them, would be curious and 
useful. The effects of wine and of opium on 
the temperament of sensibility, the editor 
intended to have discussed m this place at 



\ 



LIFE OF BTJENS. 



1." i 



Sdme leiijrtJi ; but he found tlie subject too 
extensive and too professional to he intro- 
duced with propriety. The difficulty of 
abaiidoninfrany of these narcotics (if we may 
so term them), when inclination is strength- 
ened by halnt, is well known. Johnson, in 
his distre.<ses, had experienced the cheering 
but trcaclierous influence of wine, and, by a 
powerful effort, abandoned it. He was 
obliged, however, to use tea as a substitute, 
and this was the solace to which he con- 
stantly had recourse under his habitual 
melancholy. The praises of wine form 
many of the most beautiful lyrics of the 
poets of Greece and Rome, and of modern 
Europe. Whether opium, which produces 
visions still more ecstatic, has been the 
theme of the eastern poets, I do not know. 

Wine is drunk in small quantities at a 
time, in company, where, for a time, it pro- 
motes harmony and social affection. Opium 
is swallowed by the Asiatics in full doses at 
once, and the inebriate retires to the solitary 
indulgence of his delirious imaginations. 
Hence, the wine drinker appears in a supe- 
rior light to the imbiber of opium, a dis- 
tinction which he owes more to the form 
tlian to the qnnUty of his liquor. 

Page 68, Note 120.— Mrs. Riddel of 
Woodlee Park. 

Page 72, Note 121. — Take, forinstance, 
the authors or collaters of the Delicia Poet- 
arum Scotonim, and others. 

Page 73, Note 122. — Lord Karnes. 

Page 71. Note 123. — X few Scottish 
ballads, attributable to the last century, have 
been got together in the Pepys collection, 
but without clue to the authorships. 

Pare 74, Note 121. — Some strong rea- 
sons are assigned by a contributor signing 
himself J. Runcole, who addresses Mr. 
Ramsay in the second volume of T/ie Bee, for 
doubting the autiienticity of a great number I 
of Scottish Songs of professedly remote [ 
antiquity, and of much celebrity. The quo- i 
tation cited above, is extracted from a letter , 
addressed by Mr. Ramsay, of Ochtertyre, to 
Dr. Currie, and dated Sept. 11th, 1799. 

Page 175, Note 25 — Allan Ramsay, it 
is said, was employed in the capacity of a 
washer of ore, in the lead mines, at Lead 
Hills, belonging to the Earl of Hopetown. 
His father was, and had from his youth, 
also been a workman in the same mines. 
But it is to be remarked that the limited 
hours of inine-tabonr (only six per diem, or, 
according to some, only four), together with 
the general good character, sobriety, and 
intelligence of the people, and the con- 
venience of a good library containing some 



thousands of volumes, in common amongst 
them, contributed to afford these men very 
superior opportunities of intellectual im- 
provement. 

Page 75, Note 12G.— Mr. Ramsay of 
Ochtertyre, writing to one of Burns's Bio- 
graphers, gives the following account of 
Allan Ramsay; — "He was coeval with 
Joseph Mitchell, and his club of sm:(ll wits, 
who, about 1719, published a very p )or 
miscellany, to which. Dr. Young, the iMtlior 
of Niqht Thoughts, prefixed a copy of 
verses." 

Page 75, Note 127.— The first line of 
this piece runs thus : — 

" What beauties does Flora disclose !" 

Page 75, Note 128. — The first line oi 
this piece runs thus : — 

"I have heard a lilting at our ewe's milking." 

Page 76, Note 129 —This Mrs. Cock- 
burn died before the poet ; that is, on the 
22nd of November, 1794. 

P.YGE 76, Note 130. — See the Intro- 
(Inctiou to the History of Poetry in Scotland, 
by T. Campbell, and an article affording a 
Biographical Sketch of this writer in the 
Supplement to the Encyclopedia Britannica. 

Page 77, Note 131. — Critics and .•Anti- 
quarians are equally divided on this point, 
jlr. Tytler has struggled very bird to 
establish the genuineness of authorship for 
this piece, whilst Sir D. Dalryinple most 
unaccountably attributes it to James V! 
Pray, Sir David, where did you discover that 
the tifth James was either a wit or a poet ? 
That he was an arrant pedant is undoubtedly 
true. But the first James was certainly one 
of the best of poets whom Scotland has pro- 
duced. There is ample evidence of his 
having fathered verses, and verses of very 
great merit, and of his peculiar love of music 
and minstrelsy. 

Page 78, Note 132. — This is the title of 
the poem selected as an instance; and being 
rendered into English, would mean The 
Farmer's Fireside. 

Page 78, Note 133. — Why the acute 
observation, and true portraiture, afforded in 
this surprising production, should, upon its 
first appearance, have struck the higher 
orders of society with astonisliment, is 
readily to be understood. The circuiustances 
and position of the poet, which effect nally 
excluded him from ever having bid an 
opportunity of mingling with any but the 
society of peasants, seemed to adii tlie charm 
of inspiration, or of intuitive perception, to 
the accurate delineation of charairter, cir 



NOTES TO THE 



cumstaiice, &c., in the upper walks of life. 
But, like all true and natural philosophers, 
Burns saw iu human nature iiothinj^ but 
human nature, and that same nature bearintf 
the indelible stamp of its constitution 
identical and unerased, notwithstanding the 
small differences of condition and circum- 
stance. The poem, therefore, is merely a 
testimony to the natural sagacity of the 
poet. 

Page 79, Note 134.— The poet's "Ear- 
nest Cry and Prayer to the Scottish Repre- 
sentatives in Parliament." 

P.\GE 79, Note 135. — ^By a "Highland 
gill," is meant a gill of the native Highland 
beverage, namelv, whisky. 

Page 79, Note 136. — In Enghsh, we 
should express these terms by the para- 
phrase — " the middle of the street, and the 
footway." 

Page 79, Note 137. — In the piece en- 
titled the " Brigs of Ayr." 

Page 79, Note 138. — As will be seen in 
the s:lossarv, this term signifies a messenqer. 

Page 79, Notes 139 and 140.— The 
" Dungeon Clock" (or Tower Clock) and the 
"Wallace Tower," are the names of the 
steeples of Ayr. 

Page 80, Note 141. — This festival is 
still very popularly observed (or rather, was 
so, until the political and religious agitations 
had been revived of late years) iu some parts 
of Ireland. In the remote and aboriginal 
districts of North Wales also, we have 
many instances of its constant observance. 

Page 80, Note 142.— For truth and 
exactness of pencilling, for the brightness of 
colour, and for the delicacy and gentleness 
of description, this passage is almost un- 
rivalled, in its own melting, soft, impressive 
monosyllabic diction, it is inimitable. The 
bold descriptions of Thomson here compared 
with this passage, have a ruggedness, almost 
a harshness, which destroys all parallel; and 
the beautiful lines of Lord Byron, which 
run on a similar vein of description, are 
wanting in the naif, inexpressible sim- 
plicity of this passage, as for instance : — ■ 

" 'Tis sweet to hear 
At midnight o'er the blue and moonlit deep 
The song and oar of Adria's gondolier," &c. 

Page 81, Note 143. — The word owrie, 
used as it is iu this instance, may have two 
interpretations, or may be saddled with both 
constructions simultaneously. Refer also to 
the (jlossanj. In general, as applied to cattle, 
or to domestic animals, it signifies such 
as are left abroad during the winter instead 
of being brought home to the pens, or sheds 



of the homestead. Added to this, the word 
owrie is also used in the sense of that 
pinched, wretched, shioering, drooping, ap- 
pearance which cattle sometimes present in 
wet and cold weather. 

Page 81, Note 144. — The word silly is 
not here to be understood in its offensive 
sense. It is very t'ommonly used by the 
Scotch, and occurs very frequently in the 
poems of Burns, as a term of affection and 
pity. 

Page 82, Note 145. — It must be borne 
in mind, that throughout the portraiture of 
the Cotter, there is an evident affectionate 
tracing of the character, situation. Sic, of 
the poet's own father — an acceptation which 
adds much poignancy to many of its 
passages. 

Page 83, Note 146. — It is a peculiar 
feature of the Scottish minstrelsy that it 
abounds in dialogues between man and wife. 
To the labours of Mr. Pinkerton, in his 
earnest and successful pursuit of remote 
Scottish literary productions, we are in- 
debted for a multiplicity of parallel passages 
in the songs, as well as amongst the un- 
polished attempts at comic dramatic writing. 
The salient point of these pieces, is the in- 
variable triumph of the " better half" in 
the contest, in the course of which as many 
caustic things have baen said, as may con- 
veniently be crammed into a brief conver- 
sation. 

Page 83, Note 147. — The subjoined ex- 
tracts may be cited as illustrations of the 
question. First let us detail the romance of 
a Scottish song of the early part of the 
eighteenth Century. We have a Highland 
lad wooing a Lowland lass to fly with him to 
the Highlands, and share his fare and fortune. 
The scene is on the banks of a most beauti- 
ful stream (Ettric banks), in the calm and 
stillness of a summer's evenin'4, and the ex- 
ordium of the tale runs as fcU'jws : — 
" On Ettrick banks, one summer's night 

At gloaming when the sheep drove hame, 
I met my lassie, braw and tight. 

Come wading barefoot a' her lane ; 
My heart grew hght, I ran, I flang 

My arms about her lily neck ; 
And kissed and clasped her here fu' lang; — 

My words they were ua mouy feck." 

In another of these pieces we have the 
heroine lamenting o'er the sweet recollections 
of the trysting place, and raptured hour. 
The comparison of the love scene w-ith the 
present, which quickens the vivid recollection, 
is most apparent in the contrast between the 
two subjoined stanzas ; — 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



475 



How blythe, each mom, was I to see 

My swain come o'er the l\ill ; 
He skiiit the burn, and flew to itie : — 
I met liim \vi' guiil will. 

* « * • 

Oh ! tlie broom, — the bonm'e, boiinie broom, 

The Broom of Cowderi-Knowes ! 
I wish I were with my dear Swain, 
^^'ith his pipe, and mi/ ewes. 
Page 83, Note 148.— That the dramatic 
form of writing characterises the productions 
of ail early, or, what amounts to the same 
thing, of a rude stage of society, may be 
illustrated by a reference to the most ancient 
compositions that we know of, the Hebrew 
Scriptures, and the writings of Homer. The 
form of dialogue is adopted in the old 
Scottish ballads, even in narration, whenever 
the situations described become interesting. 
This sometimes produces a very striking 
effect, of which an instance may be given 
from the ballad of Edom o' Gordon, a com- 
position, apparently, of the sixteenth century. 
The story of the ballad is shortly this : — The 
Castle of Rhodes, in the absence of its lord, 
is attacked by the robber Edom o' Gordon, 
The lady stands on her defence, beats off the 
assailants, and wounds Gordon, who, in his 
rage, orders the castle to be set on fire. 
That his orders are carried into effect, we 
learn from the expostulation of the lady, who 
is represented as standing on the battlements, 
and remonstrating on this barbarity. She is 
interrupted: — 

" Oh then bespake her little son. 
Sate on his nourice knee ; 
Says, ' blither dear, gi' owre this house. 

For the reek it smithcrs me.' 
'I wad gie a' my gowd, my childe, 

Sae wad I a' my fee. 
For ane blast o' the westlin wind, 
To blaw the reek frae thee.' " 
Tlie circumstantiality of the Scottish love- 
songs, and the dramatic form which prevails 
so generally in them, probably arises from 
their being the descendants and successors 
of the ancient ballads. In the beautiful 
modern song of Mary of Castle-Cary, the 
dramatic form has a very happy effect. The 
same may be said of Donald and Flora, and 
Come under my Pladdie, by the same author, 
Mr. Macniel. 

r.\r.E 84, Note 149.— IMrs. Barbauld 
has fallen into an error in this respect. In 
her prefatory address to the works of Collins, 
speaking of the natural objects that may be 
employed to give interest to the descrip- 
tion of passion, she observes : — " They 
present an inexhaustible variety, from the 



Song of Solomon, breathing of cassia, myrru, 
and cinnamon, to the Gentle Sliepherd of 
Ramsay, whose damsels carry their milking- 
pails through the frosts and snows of their 
less genial, but not less pastoral country." 
The damsels of Ramsay do not walk in the 
midst of frost and snow. Almost all the 
scenes of the Gentle Shepherd are laid in 
the open air, amidst beautiful natural 
objects, and at the most genial season of the 
year. Ramsay introduces all his acts with 
a prefatory description to assure us of this. 
The fault of the climate of Britain is 
not, that it does not afford us the beauties 
of summer, but that the season of such 
beauties is comparatively short, and even 
uncertain. There are days and nights, even 
in the northern division of the island, 
which equal, or perhaps surpass, what are to 
be found m the latitude of Sicily, or of 
Greece. Buchanan, when he wrote his ex- 
quisite Ode to May, felt the charm as well 
as the transientness of these happy days :— 

"Salve fugacis gloria seculi. 
Salve secunda digna dies nota, 
Salve vetustse vitse imago, 
Et specimen venientis ^Evi! 

Park 86, Note 150. — Those who, primed 
with the statistics of Sir John Sinclair, at- 
tribute the expatriation of the Scotch to a 
disproportion between the numerical aggre- 
gates of the sexes, seem to consider the 
number stated in round figures above, as 
inadequate. The latter proposition is easily 
granted, but the current joke against 
Sawney, seems to allege some more probable 
and prevailing cause for the spontaneous 
expatriation in question. He has en- 
terprise, and requires a broader field, 
and above all, more ample resources ; and 
those of his own country would be limited 
but for the adjunct of the sister realm. 
Whether, or not, the beautiful song of 
Burns : — 

" Their groves of sweet mjTtle," 
be addressed to these wandering fellow 
countrymen, I am fully prepared to 
admit its excellence, and the probability 
that it will be read with as much admiratiou 
by others. 

Paoe 89, Note 151. — This was in reply 
to a report which had come to the cars of Dr. 
Currie, to the effect that a violent hurricane, 
which actually levelled a portion of the 
cottage, occurred simultaneously with the 
birth of Burns. 

Page 90, Note 152.— This was Mr. 
Peter Ewart, of Manchester, a friend of Dr. 
Curric's. 



476 



ADDITIONAL NOTE TO THE 



Page 95, Note 153. — The household 
effects (if I^Irp. Burns were sold by public 
auction on the 10th and 11th of April, and 
from the anxiety of the public to possess 
relics of this interesting household, brought 
uncoinmonly high sums. According to the 
Dumfries Courier, " the auctioneer com- 
menced with small articles, and when he 
came to a broken copper coffee-pot, there were 
80 many bidders, that the price paid exceeded 
twenty-fold the intrinsic value. A tea-kettle 
of the same metal succeeded, and reached 
£2 sterling. Of the linens, a table-cloth, 
marked 1792, which, speaking commercially, 
may be worth half-a-crown or five shillings, 
was knocked down at £5. 7s. Many otlier 
articles commanded handsome prices, and 
the older and plainer the furniture, the better 
it sold. The rusty iron top of a shower- 
bath, which Mrs. Dunlop, of Duidop, sent 
to the poet when afflicted with rheumatism, 
was bought by a Carlisle gentleman for 



£1. 8s. ; and a low wooden kitchen chair, on 
which the late Mrs. Burns sat when nursing 
her children, was run up to £3. 7s. The 
crystal and china were much coveted, and 
brought, in most cases, splendid prices. 
Even an old fender reached a figure which 
would go far to buy half-a-dozen new ones, 
and everything towards the close attracted 
notice, down to grey-beards, bottles, and a 
half-worn pair of bellows. The poet's eight- 
day clock, made by a Mauchline artist, at- 
tracted great attention, from the circumstance 
that it had frequently been wound up by his 
own hand. In a few seconds it was bid up 
to fifteen pounds or guineas, and was finally 
disposed of for £33. The purchaser had a 
hard battle to fight; but his spirit was good, 
and his purse obviously not a light one, and 
the story ran that he had instructed Mr. 
Richardson to secure a preference at any 
sum under £60." 



5liihitifliinl if^afe, 



RELATING TO THE BACHELOR'S CLUB, AT TARBOLTON. 



RULES AND REGULATIONS. 

1st. The club shall meet at Tarbolton 
every fourth Monday night, when a question 
on any subject shall be proposed, disputed 
points of religion only excepted, in the 
manner hereafter directed , which question 
is to be debated in the club, each member 
taking whatever side he thinks proper. 

2nd. When the club is met, the president, 
or, he failing, some one of the members, till 
he come, shall take his seat ; then the other 
members shall seat themselves ; those who 
are for one side of the question, on the pre- 
sident's right hand ; and those who are for 
the other side, on his left — which of them 
shall have the right hand, is to be determined 
by the president. The president and four 
of the members being present, shall have 
power to transact any ordinary part of the 
society's business. 

3rd. The club met and seated, the presi- 
dent shall read the question out of the club's 
book of records (which book is always to be 



kept by the president) ; then the two mem- 
bers nearest the president shall cast lots who 
of them shall speak first, and, according as 
the lot shall determine, the member nearest 
the president on that side shall deliver his 
opinion, and the member nearest on the other 
side shall reply to him ; then the second 
member of the side that spoke first ; then 
the second member of the side tliat spoke 
second — and so on to the end of the com- 
pany ; but if there be fewer members on the 
one side than on the other, when all tlie 
members of the least side have spoken ac- 
cording to their places, any of them, as they 
please among themselves, may reply to the 
remaining members of the opposite sidt ; 
when both sides have spoken, the president 
shall give his opinion, after which, they may 
go over it a second or more limes, and so 
continue the question. 

4th. The club shall then proceed to the 
choice of a question for the subject of the 
next night's meeting. The president shall 
first propose one, and any other member who 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



477 



chooses may propose more questions , and 
whatever one of them is most agreeable to 
. the majority of the niemhers, shall be the 
subject of debate next club-niglit. 

5th. The club shall, lastly, elect a new 
president for the next meeting; the president 
shall first name one, then any of the club 
may name another, and whoever of them 
has the majority of votes shall be duly elected 
— allowing the president the first vote, and 
the casting vote upon a par, but none other. 
Then, after a general toast to the mistresses 
of the club, they shall dismiss. 

6th. There shall be no private conversa- 
tion carried on during the time of debate, 
nor siiall any member interrupt another 
while he is speaking, under the penalty of a 
reprimand from the president for the first 
fault, doubhng his share of the reckoning 
for the second, trebling it for the third, and 
so on in proportion for every other fault ; 
provided always, however, that any member 
may ,-peak at any time after leave asked and 
given by the president. All swearing and 
profane language, and particularly all obscene 
and indecent conversation, is strictly pro- 
hibited, under the same penalty, as aforesaid, 
in the first clause of this article. 

7th. No member, on any pretence what- 
ever, shall mention any of the club's affairs 
to any other person but a brother member, 
under the pain of being excluded ; and, par- 
ticularly, if any member shall reveal any of 
the speeches or affairs of the club, with a 
view to ridicule or laugh at any of the rest 
of the members, he shall be for ever excom- 
municated from the society ; and the rest of 
tim members are desired, as much as possible. 



to avoid and have no communication with 
him as a friend or comrade. 

8th. Every member shall attend at the 
meetings, without he can give a proper 
I excuse for not attending ; and it is desired 
that every one who cannot attend, will send 
his excuse with some other member; and he 
who shall be absent three meetings, without 
sending such excuse, shall be summoned to 
the club-night, when, if he fad to appear, or 
send an excuse, he shall be excluded. 

9th. The club shall not consist of more 
than sixteen members, all bachelors, belong- 
ing to the parish of Tarbolton ; except a 
brother-member marry, and iu that case he 
may be continued, if the majority of the 
club think proper. No person shall be ad- 
mitted a member of this society, witiiout 
the unanimous consent of the club; and any 
member may withdraw from the club alto- 
gether, by giving a notice to tiie president 
in writing of liis departure. 

10th. Every man proper for a member of 
this society, must have a frank, honest, open 
heart ; above any thing dirty or mean ; and 
must be a professed lover of one or more of 
the female sex. No haughty, self-conceited 
person, who looks upon himself as superior 
to the rest of the club, and especially no 
mean-spirited, worldly mortal, whose only 
will is to heap up money, shall npou any 
pretence whatever, bb admitted. In short, 
the proper person for this society is, a cheer- 
ful, honest-hearted lad, who, if he has a 
friend that is true, and a mistress that is 
kind, and as much wealth as genteelly to 
make both ends meet, is just as happy bi 
this world caji make ium< 



Jlates tn tlie ^nemn nf ®urtii 



Page 101, Note 1.— According to Gil- 
bert Burns, this poem may be dated an- 
teriorly to 1784. The subjoined is his 
account of the circumstance of which these 
lines are a faithful record : — 

" Robert had, partly by way of frolic, 
bought an ewe and two lambs from a neigh- 
bour, and she was tethered in a field ad- 
joining the house at Lochlee. He and I 
were going out with our teams, and our two 
younger brothers to drive for us, at midday, 
when Hugh Wilson (the Hue/hoc of the 
poem, who was a neiglibouring farmer's 
herd-mate), a curious looking, awkward boy, 
clad in pl;iiding, came to us, with miich 
anxiety in his face, with the information that 
the ewe liad entangled herself in the tether, 
and was lying in the ditch. Robert was 
much tickled with liughoc's appearance and 
postures on the occasion. Pour Mailie was 
set to rights, and when we returned from the 
plougii, in the evening, he repeated to me 
her death and dying words, pretty much in 
the way they now stand." 

r.\GE 102, Note 2. — This Davie was Mr. 
David Sillar, of whom we have had occasion 
to speak as a brother rhymester of Burus's. 
lie was one of the intimates of the Batche- 
lour's Club, at Tarbolton, to which he had 
been introduced in 17S1. In his subsequent 
career he became connected with the borough 
of Irvine, first as a teacher, and afterwards 
as a bailie ; and he survived to the advanced 
age of seventy years. He died on the 2nd 
of May, 1830. 

Page 102, Note 3. — A quotation from 
Allan Ramsay. 



Page 102, Note 4.— The tolerated 
beggar was a species of travelling historian, 
traditionist, bard, or jester, according to the 
humour o^ his respective audiences, and he 
was expected to earn the bounty of his 
hearers by entertaining them. 

Page 103, Note 5. — Meg (or more 
properly, Margaret Orr, of whom Burns 
speaks so familiarly) was nursery maid in the 
establishment of Mrs Stewart, of Stair. In 
Sillar's visits to his Meg, he was not un- 
freqiiently accompanied by Burns, who 
would supply verses for the songs of other 
female servants ; some of these accidentally 
fell, in manuscript, into the hands of Mrs. 
Stewart, who was so struck with their 
beauty, that she desired that, upon his next 
visit, the author should be presented to her. 
He was accordingly introduced, and Mrs. 
Stewart is numbered amongst the first 
friends whom Burus's genius had secured 
amongst those of superior rank. 

Page 103, Note 6.— This poem may 
be dated, according to Gilbert Burns, to 
whom it was first repeated, in the winter of 
1784-5. 

Page 104, Note 7. — The original manu- 
script affords the subjoined version of these 
lines : — 

" Lang syne in Eden's happy scene. 
When strapping Adam's days were green, 
And Eve was like my bonnie Jean, 

My dearest part, 
A dancin', sweet, young, handsome quean, 

O' guiless heart." 

Page 106. Note 8. — The author's own 



POEMS OF BURNS. 



479 



intos have been appended to the references 
taroiighoiit tliis poem, not but that the 
spells of this characteristic festival are now 
very generally understood. — " It is thought 
to be a night when all the superhuman 
beings who people space, and e;irth and iiir, 
in search of mischief, revel at miduight — 
and it is also a grand anniversary of the 
more beneficent tribe of fairies, whose occu- 
pation is to baffle each evil genius in his 
wicke 1 pursuit. — R. B, 

Page 106, Note 9. — Certain little, ro- 
mantic, rocky, green hills in the neighbour- 
hood of the ancient seat of the Earl of 
Cassilis. — R. B. 

Page 106, Note 10. — A noted cavern 
near Colean House, called the Cave of 
Colean, wliich, as well as Cassihs Downans, 
is famed in country story as the haunt of 
fairies. — R. B. 

Page 106, Note 11.— The heads of the 
race of Bruce were Earls of Carrick. — R. B. 

Page 106. Note 12— The first certi-' 
mony of Halloween is, pulling each a stock 
or plant of kail. They must go out hand 
in hand with eyes shut, and pull the first 
they meet with : its being big or little, 
straight or crooked, is proplietic of the size 
and sliajie of the grand object of all their 
spells — the husband or wife. If any yird, 
or earth, stick to the root, that is tocher, 
or fortune ; and the taste of the custoc, or 
heart of the stem, is indicative of the 
natural temper or disposition. Lastly, the 
stems, or as they are called, the runts, 
are placed above the cornice of the door ; 
and the Christian names of those whom 
chance brings into the house, are, according 
to the order in which the runts were placed, 
the names in question. — R. B. 

Page 106, Note 13.— Tliey go to the 
barn yard, and pull each, at three several 
times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk 
wants a top pickle, or grain at the top of the 
stalk, the lady will be wedded, but not a 
maid.— R. B. 

Page 106, Note 14. — When the corn 
is in n doubtful state, by beiug too green or 
wet, the stackbuilder, by means of old tim- 
ber, &c., makes a large apartment in his 
stack, with an opening in the side which is 
fau-est exposed to the wind : this he calls a 
fause-house. — R. B. 

Page 106, Note 15. — Burning the nuts 
is a famous charm. They name the lad 
and lass to each particular nut, as they lay 
them in the fire, aiul accordmgly as they 
burn quietly together, or start from beside 
one another, the course and issue of the 
courtship will be. — R. B. 



42 



Page 106, Note 16. — Whoever would, 
with success, try this spell, must strictly 
observe these directions : — Steal out, all 
alone, to the kiln, and, darkling, tlirow into 
the pot a clue of blue yarn ; wind it in a 
clue otf the old one, and, towards the latter 
end something will hold the thread ; de- 
mand "wiia hands?" that is, who holds? 
An answer will be returned from tlie kiln- 
pot, by naming the Christian and sur- 
name of your fut\ire spouse. — R. B. 

Page 106, Note 17. — Take a candle, 
and go alone to a looking-glass ; eat an apple 
before it, and some traditions say, you 
should comb your hair all the time; the 
face of your conjugal companion, to be, will 
be seen in the glass, as if peeping o\er your 
shoulder. 

Pack 107, Note 28. — Steal out, unper- 
ceived, and sow a handful of hemp-seed, 
harrowing it with any thing you can con- 
veniently draw after you. Repeat, now and 
then, " Hemp seed I saw thee ; hemp-seed 
I saw thee ; and him (or her) that is to be 
my true love, come after me and pou thee." 
Look over your left shoulder, and you will 
see the appearance of the person invoked, 
in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some 
traditions say, " Come after me, and sha sv 
thee," that is, show thyself : in which case 
it simply appears. Others omit the harrow- 
ing, and sav, " Come after me, and harrow 
thee."— R. "b. 

Page 107, Note 19. — This charm must 
likewise be performed uuperceived and 
alone. You go to the barn, and open both 
doors, taking them off the hinges, if possi- 
ble ; for there is danger that the being about 
to appear may shut the doors, and do you 
some mischief. Then take that instrument 
used in winnowing the corn, wliich, in our 
country dialect, we call a wecht ; and go 
through all the attitudes of letting down 
corn against the wind. Repeat it three 
times, and the third time, an apparition w dl 
pass through the barn, in at the windy 
door, and out at the other, having both the 
figure in question, and the appearance or 
retinue, marking the employment or station 
in life.— R. B. 

Page 107, Note 20. — Take an oppor- 
tunity of going, unnoticed, to a bean-stack, 
and fathom it three times round. The last 
fathom of the last time, you wdl catch in 
your arms the appearance of your future 
conjugal yoke-fellow. — R. B. 

Page 107. Note 21. — You go out, one 
or more, for this is a social spell, to a south 
running spring or rivulet, where " three 
laird's lands meet," and dip your left shirt- 



4Mj 



NOTES TO THE 



sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and 
hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. 
Lie awake ; and some time near midnight, 
ftn apparition, having the exact tigure of the 
grand object in question, v\ ill come and turn 
the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of 
it.— R. B. 

Page IOS.Note 22.— Take three dishes: 
put clean water in one, foul water in an- 
other, leave the third empty : blindfold a 
person, and lead him to the hearth where 
the dishes are ranged ; he (or she) dips the 
left hand — if by chance in the clean water, 
the future Imsband or wife will come to the 
bar of matrimony a maid ; if jii the foul, 
a widow ; if in the empty dish, it fortells 
with equal cert;iinty, no marriage at 
all. It is repeated three times, and 
every time the arrangement of the dishes 
is altered. — R.. B. 

Page 108, Note 23. — Sowens, with 
butter instead of milk to them, is always 
the Halloween supper. — R. B. 

Page 108, Note 24. — Burns has omitted, 
amongst the other ceremonies of Halloween, 
that of ducking for apples in tubs of water, 
Few of those of which the poet has fur- 
nished particulars, are now observed. Tlie 
lottery of dishes, the pulling kail stalks, and 
the ducking for apples, comprising the 
whole, or nearly the whole, of the frolic- 
some enchantments now in common obser- 
vance. 

Page 109, Note 25. — The author of a 
song beginning thus. (Johu Lapraik, of 
Dalfram, near MuirkirkJ : — 

" ^\Tien I upon thy bosom lean. 

And fondly ca' thee a' my ain ; 
I glory in the sacred tie 

That made us ane, wha ance were twain." 

This song was sung at one of those merry 
meetings, called rockings, from the rock, or 
distaff, which was the invariable accompani- 
ment of the female guests. 

Page 110, Note 26.— A festivity which 
took place on the road by Burus's farm, at 
Mossgiel. 

Page 111, Note 27. — "William Simpson 
has accomplished some very passable poetry, 
amongst which is an elegy on the Emperor 
Paul. He was first the teacher at Ochiltree, 
and afterwards engaged in the same capa- 
city at New Cumnock. 

Page 113, Note 28. — Hornbook's career 
seems to have borne out his claim to some 
more elevated occupation than the ownership 
of a shop of all wares, the duties of an 
obscure dispenser, or those of a wretched 
parish schoolmaster. Such were his occupa> 



tions at Tarbolton, where first he was engagtil 
as a teacher. He subsequently stocked a 
small store of grocery and general wares, to 
which, after some poring over medical books, 
he also added the diugs in more ordinary 
demand. This last acqui.sition was of the more 
consequence, as there was no medical man in 
the place; and Hornbook having started up 
into a medical authority, pompously paraded 
his knowledge and skill at a Mason meeting 
at Tarbolton, in the presence of Burns, and 
thus suggested this poem. Hornbook sub- 
sequently settled in Glasgow, and outlived 
the poet nearlv half a century. 

Page 113,"Note 29.— \Villie's Mill waa 
the name of a null just out of the village of 
Tarbolton, on the road to Mossgiel, and on 
a small stream called the Fade. It was 
occupfed by Mr. William Muir, an intimate 
friend of the Burns's, and one of the sub- 
scribers to the first Edinburgh Editiou of 
Robert's Poems. 

Page 113, Note 30. — Buchan's well- 
known work on Domestic Medicine. 

Page 114, Note 31. — The Grave-digger. 

Page 114, Note Z2.— (Misprinted \\.) 
This poem was probably suggested by 
Fergusson's Hallow Fair of Edinbinyh, 
although it is rather constructed after the 
model of the same poet's Leith Raves. 
The ceremonial of rural communion, as 
it lias been till very recently, or still is 
observed in some parts of Scotland, furnishes 
the incidents of the poem. 

Page 11.5, Note 33. — The popular name 
of a poor crazy girl, who was in the habit of 
running for wagers. 

Page 115, Note 34. — This was an exqui- 
site hit at the preaching of Moodie, who 
was fond of holding forth the terrors of the 
law. In the first, or Kilmarnock edition, 
this word was printed saloation, which, as 
applied to Moodie, was comparatively tame. 
Dr. Blair, of Edinburgh, is said to have 
suggested the correction. Moodie was the 
minister of Riccarton. 

Page 115, Note 35. — The minister of 
Galston, who also figures in the Kirk's 
Alarm, under the name of Irvine-side. This 
person was subsequently better known as 
a preacher by the name of Dr. George 
Smith. 

Page 110, Note 36. — Dr. William 
Peebles, then the Rev. Mr. W. Peebles, who 
was minister of Newton-upou-Ayr, and who 
also figures in the Kirk's Alarm, as having 
been prominent in the persecution of Dr. 
McGill. 

Page 116, Note 37.— Dr. Mackenzie, 
afterwards minister at Irvine, but at this 



POEMS OF BURNS. 



431 



period of Mauchline, who is thus introduced 
in allusion to a pamphlet, in exposition of 
some village controxersy which he had pro- 
mulgated under the title of Common Sense. 

Page 116, Note 38. — The name of a 
street at Jlauchline. 

Page 116, Note 39.— This Mr. Miller 
was subsequently minister at Kilniaur's, and 
a little portlv person he was. 

Page 116, Note 40.— The Rev. John 
Russell, who also tigures in the Twa Herds. 
He subsequently became minister at Stirling, 
but was at this period attached to the chapel 
of ease at Kilmarnock. 

Page 116, Note 41. — Expression bor- 
rowed from the subjoined passage in 
Hamlet. 

" I could a tale unfold — 
Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young 

blood ; 
Make thine eyes like stars start from their 

spheres ; 
Tliy knotty and combined locks to part ; 
A ud each particular hair to stand on end. 
Lake quills upon the fretful porcupine." 

Page 117 Note 42.— The ultra ortho- 
doxy of the newly-appointed minister of the 
parochial Kirk of Kilmarnock, on the 6th of 
April, 17S6, and the consequent triumph of 
the Auld Lights over the Moderates, elicited 
the bitter irony of this poem. 

Page 117, Note 43. — An allusion to the 
chief occupation of the people of Kilmar- 
nock, in the manufacture of leather and 
woollen goods, carpets and articles of this 
nature. 

Page 117, Note 44. — The landlord of a 
tavern near the parish church. 

Page 117, Note 45. — This passage refers 
to a satirical ballad, circulated upon the in- 
duction of the Kev. Mr. Lindsay, as minister 
of the parochial church. 

Page 117, Note 46. — See Genesis chap, 
ix, V. 22. 

Page 117, Note 47. — See Numbers 
chap. XXV, V. 8. 

Page 117, 
chap, iv, V. 25. 

Page 117, Note 49.— The Rev. Mr. 
Robertson was the colleague of the new 
minister; but not of the ultra-orthodox 
Kirk party. 

Page 117, Note 50. — ^Netherton was 
the name of a quarter of the town of Kil- 
marnock. 

Page 117, Note 51. — The predecessor 
of the new minister. 

Page 117, Note 52. — The person here 
alluded to is apparently unknown to all 
II 



Note 48. — See Exodus 



those who have made local researches 
respecting Burns and his poems. One 
commentator supposes it to be an allusion 
to the author of the Essay on Truth. This, 
however, is mere hypothesis. 

Page 118, Note 53.— In the west of 
Scotland, the term New Lir/ht is a popu- 
lar designation of the opinions promulgated 
by Dr. Taylor and his partisans. 

Page 118, Note 54. — James Smith was 
formerly a shopkeeper at Mauchline ; subse- 
quently, a calico printer, at Avon, near 
Linlithgow ; and lastly, an emigrant to the 
West Indies, where he died. 

Page 119, Note 55. — The authenticity 
of this poem has been very erroneously 
doubted. It was written by Burns in 1783, 
but was not published in his own editions, 
probably, because he had retained no copy of 
it, clearly not that he thought it unworthy 
of him. In 1801, this piece appeared in a 
small volume, published at Glasgow, by 
Messrs. Brash and Reid, under the unpre- 
tendnig title of Poems ascribed to Robert 
Burns. All the more recent authorities 
have been convinced of its authenticity, 
which, in fact, appears to be incontestibly 
established by its style ; and Mr. Chambers 
has furnished some partictilars respecting 
the incident to which it is attributable. The 
following is the anecdote : — 

"It is understood to have been founded 
on the poet's observation of an actual scene 
which one night met his eye, when, in com- 
pany with his friends John Richmond and 
James Smith, he dropped accidentally, at a 
late hour, into a very humble hostelry in 
Ma\ichline, the landlady of which was a 
jMrs. Gibson, more familiarly named Poosie 
Nancy. After witnessing much jollity 
amongst a company, who, by day, appeared 
abroad as miserable beggars, the three 
young men came away. Burns professing to 
have been greatly delighted with the scene, 
but, particularly with the gleesome behaviour 
of an old maimed soldier. In the course of 
a few days, he recited a part of the poem to 
Richmond, who has informed the present 
editor, that, to the best of his recollection, it 
contained, in its original complete form, 
songs by a sweep and a sailor, which do not 
now appear. The landlady of the house 
was mother to Racer Jess, alluded to in the 
Holy Fair, and her house was at the left hand 
side of the opening of the Cowynte, mentioned 
in the same poem, and opposite to the church. 
An account of the house, the characters who 
frequented it, and the scenes which used to 
take place in it, is given in Chambers's Edir^- 
burgh Journal, No 2. A lithographic fao- 



482 



NOTES TO THE 



simile of the original manuscript of the Jolly 
Beijgars has been pubUshed." 

Sir Walter Scott, with some taint of a 
prudery, which accasionally exposed him to 
the charge of affectation, has, however, been 
liberal enough in his remarks on this poem, 
to attach a defence to his own censure. 
Subjoined is his own criticism totidem 
verbis : — 

" In one or two passages of the Jolly 
Beyijurs, the muse has slightly trespassed 
on decorum, where, in the language of Scot- 
tish song, 

' High kilted was she, 
As she gaed ower the lea.' 

Something, however, is to be allowed to the 
nature of the subject, and something to the 
education of the poet: and if from veneration 
to the names of Swift and Dryden, we tolerate 
the grossness of the one and the indelicacy 
of the other, the respect due to that of Burns 
may surely claim indulgence for a few light 
strokes of broad humour." 

Page 119, Note 56. — An allusion to the 
large wooden dish or platter, carried by men- 
dicants in Scotland, to receive any contribu- 
tions of broken food. 

Page 120, Note 57.— The heights of 
Abraham, on the land side of Quebec, on 
which the English army under General 
Wolfe, succeeded in giving battle to the 
enemy ; and where the general fell, mortally 
wounded, at the moment of victory, in Sep- 
tember, 1759. 

Page, 120, Note 58.— El Morro, the 
castle which defends the entrance to the 
harbour of Havanuah, in the island of Cuba. 
In 1762, this castle was stormed and taken 
by the British, after which, the Havannah 
was surrendered, with spoil to the value of 
three millions. 

Page 120, Note 59. — "The destruction 
of the Spanish floating batteries during the 
famous siege of Gibraltar, in 1782 — on 
which occasion the gallant Captain Curtis ren- 
dered the most signal service — is the heroic 
exploit here referred to." — iNIotherwell. 

Page 120, Note 60. — George Augustus 
Elliot, created Lord Ileathtield for his admi- 
rable defence of Gibraltar, during a siege of 
three years. Born 1717, died 1790. 

Page 122, Note 61.^The whisky made 
at the distillery of that name in Clackmua. 
nanshire, and famous throughout the couatry 
for its superiority. 

Page 123, Note 62.— Several of the 
poems were produced for the purpose of 
bringing forward some favourite sentiment 
of the author, lie used to remark to me, 



that he could not well conceive a more mor- 
tifying picture of human life, than a man 
seeking work. In casting about in his mind 
how this sentiment might be brought for- 
ward, the elegy, Man was made to mourn, 
was composed. — Gilbert Burns. 

The metre is adopted from an old ballad 
known by the name of the Life and Afje of 
Man, and of which the subjoined are the 
initiatory lines : — • 

" Upon the sixteen hunder year. 

Of God and fifty-three, 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear. 

As writings testifie ; 
On January the sixteenth day. 

As I did lie alone. 
With many a sigh and sob did say. 

Ah! Man is made to ninati." 

That the moral of this ballad had made a 
deep impression upon the mind of Burns, is 
evident from the following passage extracted 
from one of his letters to Mrs. Diuilop : — 

" I had an old grand-uncle with whom my 
mother lived while in her girlish years ; the 
good old man, for such he wa.s, was long 
blind ere he died; during which time, his 
happiest moments and his highest enjoyment 
were, when he sat down and cried, whilst 
my mother would sit down and siiig the 
simple old ballad, 2'he Life and A/e of Man. 

We are indebted to the compiler of the 
Land of Burns, for the following interesting 
anecdote in illustration of this poem : — 

"Close beside the end of Barskimraing 
old bridge, stands a neat, small house, in- 
habited, at the time to which this anecdote 
relates, by an old man named Kemp, and his 
daughter. The old man, not originally pos- 
sessed of the best of tempers, was rendered 
peevish and querulous by disease, and in con- 
sequence of slight paralysis, generally sup- 
ported himself on two sticks. His daughter 
Kate, however, a trim trig, lass, was one of the 
leading belles of the district, and, as such, had 
attracted a share of the attentions of Robert 
Burns. One evening the poet had come 
from Mauchline to see Kate; but, on arriving 
at the house, he found the old man at the 
door in a more than usually peevish mood, 
and was informed by him that the cow was 
lost, and that Kate had gone in quest 
of her, but she had been so long away 
he was afraid she was lost too. The poet, 
leaving the old man, crossed the bridge, 
and at the further end he met the miller 
of Barskimming mill, then a young man 
about his own age, whom he accosted thus : 
' Weel, miller, what are you doing here?' 
I ' Na, Robin,' said the miller, ' I should put 



POEMS OF LUENS. 



483 



'.hat question to yon, for I am at hame' 
itnd ye're no.' ' Why,' said Robin, ' I 
cam doun to see Kate Hemp. ' ' I was 
just gaun the same gate,' said the miller. 
' Then ye need gang nae farther,' said 
Burns, ' for baitli she and the cow's lost, 
and the auld man is perfectly wud at the 
wan., o' tlieta. But come, we'll tak a turn 
or two in the holm till we see if she cast up.' 
They accordingly went into the liolm, and 
during the tirst two rounds they made, 
the poet chatted freely, but subsequently 
got more and more taciturn, and, durnig the 
last two rounds, spoke not a word. On 
reaching the stile that led from the place, he 
abruptly bade the miller good night, and 
walked rapidly towards Mauchline. Next 
time the miller and he met, he said, ' Miller, 
I owe you an apology for my silence during 
GUI last walk together, and for leaving you 
so abruptly.' '<Jh, oh!' said he, ' Kobin, 
there is no occasion, for I supposed some 
subject had occurred to you, and that you 
were thinking, and perhaps composing some- 
thing on it.' 'You were quite right, miller,' 
said Burns, ' and I will now read you what 
was chiefly the w'ork of that evening.' " 

The composition he read was Man was 
made to Mourti ! 

Page 124, Note 63. — This exquisite 
poem was actually composed at the plough- 
tail, and suggested by an incident which 
occurred to the poet whilst at work. Burns 
was handling the plough, and John Blane, 
one of the farm servants (who many years 
since remembered the incident), was driving, 
at the same time holding in his hand the 
pattle or pettle (a small wooden spud with 
which the plunghsliare was scraped at the 
commencement of every fresh furrow), when 
suddenly a mouse started from the furrow, 
and was running across the field, closely 
pursued by Blane, pattle in hand, who had 
started in chase. Burns, however, called his 
driver back, and very calmly asked him 
" What hurt the mouse had done him, that 
he should wish to kill it." From that 
moment Burns remained moody and silent 
during the rest of the day, and woke Blane 
at night (for they were bed-fellows), to 
repeat to him the lines which the incident of 
the day had suggested. 

Page 124, Note 64. — Duan is the term 
(analogous to strophe, fytte, &c.) applied by 
Ossian to the divisions of rambling poems. 

P.\GE 124, Note 65. — Curtbig is a very 
boisterous game, played upon the ice, when 
eutticicntly strong, and which consists in the 
trundling of flattened, smoothed round stones. 
The plavers are divided into sides. 

4 



Page 124, Note 66.— The parlour of the 
farm-house of Mossgiel, namely, the ouiy 
apartment besides the kitchen. This liti.e 
apartment still exists in the state in which 
it was when the poet described it as the 
scene of his vision of Coila. " Though in 
every respect humble, and partly occupied by 
fixed beds, it does not appear uncomfortable. 
Every consideration, however, sinks beneath 
the one intense feeling, that here, within 
these four walls, warmed at this little fire- 
place, and lighted by this little window (it 
has but one), lived one of the most extraor- 
dinary men ; here wrote some of the most 
celebrated poems of modern times." — 
Chambers's Journal, No. 93. 

Page 125, Note 67. — The charter of the 
borough of Ayr bears date as early as the 
beginning of the thirteenth century. 

Page 125, Note 68. — The illustrious 
family of Wallace. 

Page 125, Note 69.— Alluding to the 
great ^^'illiam Wallace, the hero of Scottish 
independence. 

Page 125, Note 70. — Adam AVallace, of 
Richardton, dbusin to William Wallace. 

Page 125, Note 71. — The Laird of 
Craigie, also, of the family of Wallace, who 
held the second command at the battle 
fought in 1448, on the banks of Sark, and 
gained by the Scottish troops, under 
Douglas, Earl of Ormond, and Wallace, 
Laird of Craigie; and in which the desperate 
valour, and masterly skill of the latter, were 
chiefly instrumental in securing the victory. 
The Laird of Craigie was mortally wounded 
in the engagement. 

Page 125, Note 72. — The shade of the 
supposed Coilus, King of the Picts, who, 
accordiug to tradition, was buried close to 
the seat of Slontgomeries, of Coitefield, 
beneath a small mound crowned with trees. 
On the 29th of Jlay, 1837, this mound was 
excavated in search of remains, and two 
urns were found, which so far corroborated 
the tradition, that the mound was ascer- 
tained to have actually held the remains of 
some illustrious chiefs. 

Page 125, Note 73. — Alluding to Bar- 
skimming, the seat of Sir Thomas JMillar, at 
that time Lord Justice Clerk, and since 
President of the Court of Session. 

Page 125, Note 74. — This stanza refers 
to Catrine, the seat of Dugald Stewart (and 
formerly of his father, the Rev. Dr. Matthew 
Stewart), and which is situated on the banbi 
of the river Ayr. 

Page 125, Note 75. — Alluding to the 
two successive possessors of Catrine. Dr. 
i Matthew, and his sou, Dugald Stewart ; the 
.1* 



I 



481 



NOTES TO THE 



first Rrninent foT his mathematical attain- 
ment, the second for his elegant philosophical 
writings. 

Page 125, Note 76.— Colonel Fullarton. 

Page 126, Note 77. — Coila (the muse of 
Burns) had been suggested to the promoter 
of her fabulous existence, by the equally 
visionary personage, wlio figures under the 
name of Scota in Mr. A. Rosa's poem. The 
Fortunate ShepJierdess. 

Page 126, Note 78.— Mossgiel, which 
has since become the property of Mr. 
Alexander, of Ballochmyle, was then amongst 
the possessions of tlie Earls of Loudon, that 
is, of the Loudon branch of the race of 
Campbell. 

Page 127, Note 79. — Towards the close 
of the year 1785, loud complaints were made 
by the Scottish distillers respecting the 
vexatious and oppressive manner in which 
the Excise laws were enforced at their 
establishments — such rigour, they said, being 
exercised at the instigation of the London 
distillers, who looked with jealousy on the 
success of their northern brethren. So great 
was the severity of the Excise, that many 
distillers were obliged to abandon the trade, 
and the price of barley was beginning to be 
affected. Illicit distillation was also found 
to be alarmingly on the increase. In conse- 
quence of the earnest remonstrances of the 
(listdlers, backed by the county gentlemen, 
an Act was passed in the session of 1786, 
(alluded to lay the author), whereby the 
duties on low wines, spirits, &c., were dis- 
continued, and an annual tax imposed on 
stills, according to their capacity. This act 
gave general satisfaction. It seems to have 
been during the general outcry against fiscal 
oppression at the end of 1785, or beginning 
of lf86, that the poem was composed. 

Page 127, Note 80.— William Pitt, who 
in his twenty-second year was at the head of 
an administration, and controlling the Ex- 
chequer. 

Page 127, Note 81.— Hugh Mont- 
gomery, of Coilsfield, afterv.'ards twelfth 
Earl of Eglinton, at that time M.P. for 
Ayrshire, and who had served in the army 
during the American war. 

Page 127, Note 82. — James Boswell, 
well known to the party politicians of Ayr- 
shire, as one of the orators of their meetings, 
but better known to the world at large as 
the shadow and biographer of Dr. Johnson. 

Page 127, Note 83. — George Dempster, 
of Dunnichen, in the county of Forfar, an 
eminent Scottish Whig representative, of the 
»;;e of Fox and Pitt. He commenced his 
4iarliamentary career in 1762, and closed it 



in 1790, after having sat in five succeeding 
parliaments. Every patriotic and liberal 
scheme had the support of this excellent 
man, who died in 1818, at the age of 
eighty-two. 

Page 127, Note 84.— Sir Adam Fer- 
gusson, of Kilkerran, Bart. He had several 
times represented Ayrshire, but at present 
was member for the city of Edinburgh. 

Page 127, Note 85.— The Marquis of 
Graham, eldest son of the Duke of Mont- 
rose. He afterwards became the third Duke 
of Montrose, and died in 1836. 

Page 127, Note 86 —The Right Hon. 
Henry Dundas, Treasurer of the Navy, and 
M.P. for Edinburghshire, afterwards Viscount 
Melville. 

. Page 128, Note 87.— Probably Thomas 
Erskine, afterwards Lord Erskme ; but he 
was not then in Parliament. 

Page 128, Note 88. — Lord Frederick 
Campbell, second brother of the Duke of 
Argyle, Lord Registrar of Scotland, and M.P. 
for the county of Argyle in this, and the 
one preceding, and the two subsequent Par- 
liaments. 

Page 128, Note 89.— Hay Campbell, 
Lord Advocate of Scotland, who afterwards 
became President of the Court of Session, 
and survived to an advanced age. He was 
at this period M.P. for the burghs compre- 
hended within the limits of Glasgow. He 
died in 1823. 

Page 128, Note 90. — This stanza was 
suppressed in all the editions which Burns 
himself superintended whilst in press, out of 
respect for the Montgomery, whose clumsy 
oratory he could not help ridiculing. 

Page 128, Note 91.— Mr. Pitt's father, 
the Earl of Chatham, was the second son of 
Robert Pitt, of Boconnock, in the county of 
Cornwall. 

Page 128, Note 92. — "Scones made 
from a mixture of oats, peas, or beans, with 
wheat or barley, ground fine, and denomi- 
nated mashhiin, are in general use, and form 
a wholesome and palatable food." — New 
Statistical Account of Scotland, parish of 
Dairy, Ayrshire. 

Page 128, Note 93. — A worthy oW 
hostess of the author's in Mauchline, where 
he sometimes studies politics over a glass of 
guid auld Scotch drink. Nanse's story was 
difl'erent. On seeing the poem, she declared 
that the poet had never been but once or 
twice in her house. 

Page 128, Note 94.— The young Chan- 
cellor of the Exchequer had gained some 
credit by a measure introduced in 1784 for 
preventing smuggling of tea by reducing thi^ 



POEJIS OF BURNS. 



48S 



duty, the revenue being compensatel by a 
tax on windows. 

Page 129, Note 95.— The model which 
Burns followed in this poeiu is evidently tlie 
Cauler Wulcr of Fergusson. Tlie poet's 
imagination is evidently more concerned in 
the bacchanalian rant, than his actual pre- 
dilection ; for it does not transpire that he 
was more especially devoted to Bacchus or 
his compeers, than the majority of his 
associates or contemporaries. 

Page 129, Note 9G — The vulgar name 
of beer being repudiated, and the more re- 
fined co<rnomen of " «/e " being substituted 
for such decoctions of malt as grace the 
tables of the great in silver tankards. 

Page 129, Note 97. — An allusion to the 
favourite draught of beer after a mess of 
porridge. 

Page 129, Note 9S.— An allusion to the 
crowding of the congregation round the 
moveable pulpits out of doors, as was 
actually the case at a parochial distribution 
of the sacrament. 

Page 130, Note 99.— The Scottish Par- 
liament passed an Act in the year 1()90, 
empowering Forbes of CuUoden to distil 
whisky free of duty, on his manor of 
Ferintosh, of Cromartyshire, in consideration 
of his services, and of the losses which he 
had sustained in the public service at the 
period of the Revolution. The immense 
wealth to which such an immunity opened 
the way, gradually stimulated the successors 
of the Forbes to the distillation of so im- 
mense a quantity of the spirit, that by 
degrees Ferintosh became a bye-word signi- 
fying whisky. This privilege was abolished 
by the Act of the British parliament, passed 
in 1785, and which regulated the Scotch dis- 
tilleries in general. But a provision was 
reserved in that act to the effect that the 
Lords of the Treasury should indemnify the 
present proprietor of the barony for the 
immense deterioration of his estate, and that 
if the Lords of the Treasury sho\dd fail to 
settle the matter fairly, it should be sub- 
mitted to a jury in the Scottish Court of 
Exchequer. Accordingly, afterfutile attempts 
at redress from the Treasury, Mr. Duncan 
Forbes prosecuted his claim, proving that the 
right had actually produced £1000 a year to 
ills family, and might have been productive of 
seven tmies as much; and the jury awarded 
him the substantial sum of £21,580 as com- 
pensation, on the 29tli of November, 1785. 

Page 130, Note 100.— A preacher of 
very general popularity amongst the poorer 
classes. 

Page 130, Note 101. — A preacher not 



much admired by the people generally, but 
received as an oracle by the select few who 
were his partisans. Robertson was out of 
health at the time these lines were writtei. 

Page 131, Note 102. — Killie, a po|inlar 
or familiar designation amongst the country 
people, moaning Kilmarnock. 

Page 131, Note 103, — Thomas Samson, a 
nurseryman, at Kilmarnock, was one amoug<t 
the earliest friends of Burns. He was 
devoted to sporting. Supposing one of his 
seasons to be his last in pursuit of game, he 
had expressed a desire to die, and to be 
buried in the Muirs, and this suggested to 
Burns the elegy and epitaph. At his death 
he was buried in Kilmarnock Churchyard, 
and at the western extremity of the church 
is a plain monumental slab, with the inscrip- 
tion: — Thomas Samson, 

Died the 12th of December, 1795, 

Aged 72 yeJTrs. 

"Tam Samson's weel-worn clav here lies;" 

&c., &c., 
in the identical words with which Burns had 
humorously provided him. 

Page 132, Note '101. — Mr. Aiken was 
one of the first persons moving in thehi.'^her 
orders of society, who noticed the remark- 
able talents of Robert Burns, and whose 
patronage and countenance upheld the poet, 
and promoted the success of his subsequently 
brilliant career. He was somewhat distin- 
guished amongst his professional colleagues 
(being a lawyer), for the superior intellec- 
tual qualifications which he possessed, and 
amongst his friends for the unaffected gene- 
rosity of his character. He died on the 
24th of March, 1807. 

Page 132, Note 103.— "Several of the 
poems were produced for the purpose of 
bringing forward some favourite sentiment 
of the author. He had frequently remarked 
to me, that he thought there was something 
peculiarly venerable in the phrase, ' Ixjt us 
worship God,' used by a decent sober head 
of a family introducing family worship. To 
this sentiment of the author, the world is 
indebted for the Cotter's Saturday Night. 
The hint of the plan, and title of the 
poem, were taken from Fergusson's Farmer't 
Iiiflle." — Gilbert Burns. "The house- 
hold of the virtuous William Burness was 
the scene of the poem, and William himself 
was the saint, and father and husband, of 
this truly sacred drama."— Ci'nningiiam. 

Page 134, Note 106.— See Pope's Wmd- 
sor Forest. 

Page 134, Note 107. — This poem is 
another remarkable instance of the fertility 
of genius which so strikingly characterised 



48" 



NOTi:S TO THE 



the muse of Burns. Like the lines to a mouse, 
it is elicited by the simplest and most trivial 
occuiretioe, and, nevertheless, is wrought up 
to a prufound dey^iee of thought and senti- 
ment, which the utmost sublimity of scenery 
could barelv have excelled. 

Page 135, Note 108.— The friend to 
whom this poem is addressed, was Mr. 
Andrew Aiken, the son of Mr. Aiken, of 
Ayr, to whom the Cotter's Saturday Nifjht 
is dedicated, and wlio had been taught by 
his father to venerate the genius and charac- 
ter of his lowly but illustrious fellow-country- 
man. Mr. Andrew Aiken survived fifty years 
after Burns, and died at St. Petersburgh, 
after a very successful mercantile career into 
which lie had early embarked at Liverpool. 

Page 136, Note 109. — The first person 
of respectable rank and good education who 
took any notice of Burns, was Mr. Gavin 
Hamilton, writer in Mauchline, from whom 
he took his farm of Mossgiel on a sub-lease. 
?.Ir. Hamilton lived in what is still called the 
Castle of Mauchline, a half-fortified old 
mansion near the church, forming the only 
remains of the ancient priory. He was the 
son of a gentleman who had practised the 
same profession in the same place, and was 
in every respect a most estimable member of 
society — generous, affable, and huiuane. 
Unfortunately his religious practice did not 
square with the notions of the then minis- 
ter of Mauchline, the Daddy Auld of 
Burns, who, in 1785, is found in the session 
records to have siunmnned him for rebuke, 
on the four following charges: — 1. Unne- 
cessary absence from church, for five conse- 
cutive Sundays (apparently the result of 
some dispute about a poor's rate) ; 2. Setting 
out on a journey to Carrick on a Sunday ; 
3. Habitual, if not total neglect of family 
worship; 4. Writuig an abusive letter to 
the session, in reference to some of their 
former proceedings respecting him. Strange 
thoush this prosecution may seem, it was 
s'rictly accordant with the right assumed by 
tlie Scottish clergy at that period, to inquire 
into the private habits of parishioners ; and 
as it is universally allowed that Mr. Auld's 
designs in the matter were purely religious, 
it is impossible to speak of it disrespectfully. 
It was unfortunately, however, mixed up 
with some personal motives in the members 
of the session, which were so apparent to 
the Presbytery, to which Mr. Hamilton 
appealed, that that reverend body ordered 
the proceedings to be stopped, and all notice 
of them expunged from the records. A 
description of the sufferings of tlie Mauch- 
iiiie Session, while orator Aiken was exposing 



them before the Presbytery, is to be founa in 
Holy Willie's Prayer. Partly from antipathy 
to the high orthodox party, but more from 
friendship for Mr. Hamilton, whom he re- 
garded as a worthy and enlightened man, 
persecuted by narrow-witted bi^'ots. Burns 
threw his partisan muse into the quarrel, 
and produced several poems, that just men- 
tioned amongst the rest, in which it is but 
too apparent that religion itself suffers in 
common with those whom he holds up aa 
abusing it. 

Page 137, Note 110. — On reading in 
the public papers the Laureate's Ode, with 
the other parade of June 4th, 1786, the 
author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he 
imagined himself transported to the birth- 
day levee ; and in his dreaming fancy, made 
the address conveyed in these lines. — R. B. 
[The Poet Laureate of the time being was 
Thomas Wartou, and the subjoined are the 
opening lines of the ode of which Burns 
became the quaint commentator in the 
dream: — 

"When Freedom nursed her native fire 
In ancient Greece, and ruled the lyre, 
Her bards disdainful, from the tyrant's brow 

The tinsel gifts of flattery tore ; 
But paid to guiltless power their willing vow; 

And to the throne of virtuous kings, &c.,&c." 

Vapid enough, it must be confessed ] 

Page 138, Note 111. — Gait, gett, or 
gyte, a homely substitute for the word child 
in Scotland. 

Page 138, Note 112.— When the vote of 
naval supplies was inider discussion in the 
session of 1786, several mndilicatious of the 
management of our naval armaments were 
hotly agitated by a Captain Mc Bride and 
his adherents. Amongst other projects, the 
abandonment of 64-gun ships was proposed 
by him. 

Page 133, Note 113.— Charles James 
Fox. 

Page 138, Note 114. — In this respect 
Burns has followed the account of the 
chronicles, adopted as it had subsequently 
been by Shanespeare, in speaking of 
Henry V., as mingling in the wildest frolics 
of his coiniiauious ; Prince Hal was clearly 
of such habits in his younger days, if we 
may trust the anecdotes in which his just 
punishment, by authority, reflected credit 
on a worthy and impartial judge. But, 
according to the memoirist Tyler, these 
were uotliing better than a tissue of ingenious 
fables. However this may be. Burns oidy 
adopted a degree of licence, which the 
greatest British Poet liad considered liim. 



f 



POEMS OF BURXS. 



4S7 



self iVee to use when the traditions were yet 
mure positive on tlie subject. 

Page 138, Note 115. — A humorous 
hit at Frederick, Duke of York (the second 
son of George III.), whose earlier career had 
been spent in Ecclesiastical vocations, as 
Bisliop of Osnahnrg'. 

P.\GE 138, NoiE 116 — 'William Henry, 
afterwards Duke of Clarence, and finally 
Kins, by the name of William IV., whose 
profession was the navy. 

Page 138, Note 117. — An allusion to 
the current tale of some youthful intrigue of 
the roval sailor. 

Page 132, Note 118.— "The tale of the 
Twa Vcir/s was composed after the resolution 
of publishing was nearly taken. Robert had 
a dog, which he called Luath, that was a 
great favourite. The dog had been 
killed by the wanton cruelty of some person, 
tlie night before my father's death. Robert 
said to me that he should like to confer 
such an immortality as he could bestow on 
his old Friend Luatli, and that he had a 
great mind to introduce something into the 
buck under the title of Stanzas to the 
jNIemory of a Cinadruped Friend ; but this 
plan was given up for the poem as it now 
stands. Cresar was merely the creature of the 
poet's imagination, created for the purpose 
of holding chat with his favourite Luath." 
— Gilbert Bur.ns. Allan Cuuningham 
mentions that John Wilson, printer, Kil- 
nuirnock, on undertaking the first edition of 
the poems, suggested the propriety of 
placing a piece of a grave nature at the 
beginning, and that Burns, acting on the 
hint, composed or ci>mpk'ted the 'I'lva Dorjs 
in walking home to Mossgiel. Its exact date 
is fixed at February 1780, by a letter of the 
poet to John Richmond. 

Page 139, Note 119. — Kyle, the native 
province of the poet, is supposed to derive 
its name from Coilus, a real or supposed 
king of the Picts, alluded to in the notes to 
the V'lsmi. Recent antiquaries are disposed 
to deduce the appellative from quite a dif- 
ferent source, from clioillie, to wit, signifying 
in the Celtic tongue a woody region. Upon 
the whole, the popular etymology appears 
the more rational. 

Page 139, Note 120.— CuchulUn's dog 
in Ossian's Fingal. 

Page 141, Note 121. — In the earUpait 
of 1780, when the friends of his Jean forced 
her to break the nuptial engagement into 
which he had clandestinely entered with her, 
and took legal steps to force him to find 
security for the maintenance of her expec- 
ted offspring — in this dismal time, when 



nothing but ruin seemed before him — our 
bard poured forth, as in the name of 
another, the following eloquent effusion of 
indignation and grief. 

Page 142, Note 122. — Allusion is here 
made to Miss Eliza Burnet, the beauty 
of her day in Edinburgh — daughter of the 
eccentric scholar and philosopher, l>ord 
Monboddo. Burns was several times en- 
tertained by his lordship at his house in St. 
John Street, Canongate, where the lady 
presided. He speaks of her in a letter iii 
the following terms: — "There has not been 
any thing nearly like her, in all the combi- 
nations of beauty, grace, and goodness, ihe 
great Creator has formed, since .Milton's 
Eve on the first day of her existence." It 
may be curious to learn what was thought of 
this lovely woman by a man of a very differ- 
ent sort from Burns — namely, Hugii Chis- 
holm, one of the seven broken men (usually 
called robbers) who kept Prince Charles in 
their cave in Inverness-shire for several 
weeks, during his hidings, resisting the 
temptation of thirty thousand pounds to 
give him up. This man, when far advanced 
in life, was brought on a visit to Edinburgh, 
where it was remarked he would never allow 
any one to shake his right hand, that 
member having been rendered sacred in his 
estimation, by the grasp of the Prince. 
Being taken to sup at Lord Monboddo's, 
old Hugh sat most of the time gazing ab- 
stractedly on Miss Burnet, and being asked 
afterwards what he thought of her, he ex- 
claimed, in a burst of his eloquent native 
tongue, which can be but poorly rendered in 
English, " She is the finest animal I ever 
beheld." Yet an enviously minute inquirer, 
in the letter-press accompanying the reprint 
of Kay's Portraits, states that she had one 
blemish, though one not apt to be observed 
— bad teeth. She died, in 1700, of con- 
sumption, at the age of twenty-rive, and the 
poet wrote an elegy upon her. — Chambeus. 

Page 143, Note 123. — An hostelry of 
high repute throughout the neighbourhood, 
situated at the Auld Brig End. 

Page 143, Note 124. — Ibis clock, as well 
as the tower or steeple in w liich it stood, has 
been removed for some years. The stteple 
was formerly attached to the old gaol of 
Ayr. 

Page 143, Note 125 — The ancient 
Wallace To>ver, which fell into a dangerous 
state of repair, was ultimately pulled down, 
and replaced by a new Tower, w liicli is still 
known by the si;ne name The Ohl Wallace 
Tower was an incongruous building, par- 
rikiug of the rule comiuixture of 9e\frul 



488 



NOTES TO THE 



styles of architecture, and from it rose a 

slender spire, whicii, though, by no means in 
exact keeping with the basement, certainly 
contributed to the picturesque aspect of the 
building. Tlie new tower stands upon the 
same foundation in the High Street of Ayr. 

Page 143, Note 126. — The falcon, or as 
it is commonly called, the Gos-hawk. The 
imagery of this passage is as beautiful as 
the expression. 

Page 143, Note 127. — A well-known 
ford in the Kiver, immediately auove the 
Auld Brig. 

Page 143, Note 128. — Generally, as the 
rapid enlightenment of the Scottish people 
has dispelled the superstitions which were 
wont to hang about some localities, even to 
the charm and poetical imagery with which 
such superstitions served at times to invest 
them, the spirits of Garpal Water are yet 
acknowledged to letain tlieir supremacy, and 
the spot is as firmly believed to be lianuted 
by many of the ])easants, as it was of okl. 

Page 144, Note 129. — The source of the 
river Ayr. 

Page 144, Notk 130. — A narrow land- 
ing place on the upward side of the chief 
quay. 

Page 144, Note 131. — Mr. McLachlan 
was at that time well known, and nnich ad- 
mired for his taste in the pertonnance of 
Scottish airs on the violin. 

Page 145, Note 132. — A complimen- 
tary allusion to Captain Hugh Montgomery, 
otherwise called Sodger llnt/k by Burns, 
(who subsequently succeeded to the Earldo-n 
of EglintonJ, and wiiose family seat of 
Coilstield is situated on the Fade, or Feal, a 
small stream which falls into the river Ayr, 
at no great distance. 

Page 145, Note 133. — In the foregoing 
notes, on the Epistle to Davie, the intro- 
duction of Burns to Mrs. Stewart, of Stair, 
has been detailed. The present passage is a 
complimentary allusion to tlie same lady. 

Page 145, Note 134. — Catrine was, as 
we have already had occasion to state, the 
seat of Dr. Stewart, the father of Professor 
Dugald Stewart, to whose honour, and in 
compliment of whom, this alhisiou is made. 

Page 145, Note 135. — " The Elegy on 
Captain Henderson is a tribute to the 
memory of a man I loved much." — Burns. 
Captain Henderson was a retired soldier, of 
agreeable manners, and upright character, 
who liad a lodging in Carrubber's Close, 
Edinburgh, and mingled with the best so- 
ciety of the city. Air. Cunningham states, 
on the authority of Sir Thomas Wallace, who 
knew him. that he " dined regularly at For- 



tune's Tavern, and was a member of the 
Capillaire Club, which was composed of all 
who inclined to the witty and the joyous." 
The poem was written in Dumfriesshire, 
in 17'J0. 

Page 145, Note 13G.— Yearns — Eagles. 

Page 146, Note 137. — "1 look on Tarn o' 
Shunter as my standard performance in the 
poetical line." — Burns. 

"When my father fewedhis little property 
near Alloway Kirk, the wall of the cliurch- 
yard had gone to ruin, and cattle had free 
liberty of pasture in it. My father and two 
or three neighbours joined m an application 
to the town-councd of Ayr, who were supe- 
riors of the adjoining laud, for liberty to 
rebuild it, and raised by subscription a sum 
for enclosing this ancient cemetery with a 
wall : hence, he came to consider it as his 
burial place, and we learned that reverence 
for it people generally have for the burial- 
place of tlieir ancestors. My brother was 
living in Ellisland, when Captain Grose, on 
his perigrinations through Scotlaml, staid 
some time at Carse-house in the neighbour- 
hood, with Captain Robert Riddel, of Glen- 
riddel, a particular friend of my brother's. 
The antiquary and the poet were ' uiico pack 
and thick thegither.' Robert requested of 
Captain Grose, when he should come to 
Ayrshire, that he would make a drawing of 
Alloway Kirk, as it was the burial-place of 
his father, where he himself had a sort of 
claim to lay down his bones when they 
should be no longer serviceable to him ; and 
added, by way of encouragement, that it was 
the scene of many a good story of witches 
and apparitions, of which he knew the cap- 
tain was very fond. The captain agreed to 
the request, provided the poet would fur- 
nish a witch story, to be printed along with 
it. ' Tam o' Shanter ' was produced on this 
occasion, and was tirst published in 
'Grose's Antiquities of Scotland.'" — Gilbert 

BuitNS. 

It was while spending his nineteenth sum- 
mer in the parish of Kirkoswald, in Carrick, 
that the poet became acquainted with the 
characters and c rcumstauces afterwards in- 
troduced into Tam o' Shanter. The hero 
was an honest farmer, named Douglas Gra- 
ham, wlio lived at Shanter, between 
Tnrnberry and Colzean. His wife, Helen 
M'Taggart, was much addicted to supersti- 
tious beliefs. Graham, dealing much in 
malt, went co Ayr every market day, whither 
he was- frequently accompanied by a shoe- 
making neighbour, John Davidson, who 
dealt a litllf in leather. The two would 
often luigc* I'o a late hour iu the taverns a( 



POEMS OF BURNS. 



489 



I lie market town. One ni^jht, when riding 
iiome more than usually late by himself, in a 
storm of wind and rain, Graham, in passing; 
over Brown Carrick Hill, near the ciridge of 
Doon, lost his bonnet, which contained the 
money he had drawn that day at the market. 
To avoid the scolding of his wife, he imposed 
upon her credulity with a story of witches 
seen at Alloway Kirk, but did not the less 
reiurn to the Carrick Hill, to seek for his 
m'^/uey, which he had the satisfaction to find, 
with his bonnet, in a plantation near the 
road. Burns, hearing Graluiiu's story told 
between jest and earnest among the smug- 
glers of the Carrick shore, retained it in his 
memory, till, at a comparatively late period 
of his career, he wove from it one of the most 
admired of his poems. Douglas Graham 
and John Davidson, the originals of Tam o' 
Shanter and Souter Johnnie, have long 
reposed in the churchyard of Kirkoswald, 
where the former had a handsome monu- 
ment, bearing a very pious inscription.— 
Chambers. 

Page 146, Note 138. — The village where 
a parish church is situated is usually called 
the Kirktou in Scotland. A certain Jean 
Kennedy, v ho kept a reputable public-house 
in the village of Kirkoswald, is here alluded 
to. 

Page 147, Note 139. — "Alloway Kirk, 
with its httle enclosed burial ground, stands 
beside the road from Ayr to Maybole, about 
two miles from the former town. The 
church has long been roofless, but the walls 
are pretty well preserved, and it still retains 
its bell at the east end. Upon the whole, 
the spectator is struck with the idea, that 
the witches must have had a rather narrow 
stage for the performance of tiieir revels, as 
described in the poem. The inner area is 
now divided by a partition-wall, and one part 
forms the family burial-place of Mr. Catch- 
cart, of Blairston. The ' winnock bunker in 
the east,' wliere sat the awful musician of the 
party, is a conspicuous feature, being a small 
window, divided by a thick mnllion. Around 
the buidiiig are the vestiges of other open- 
ings, at any of which the hero of the tale 
may be supposed to have looked in upon the 
hellish scene. A\'itliin the last few years the 
old oaken rafters of the kirk were mostly 
entire, but they have now been entirely 
taken away, to form, in various shapes, 
memorials of a place so remarkably signal- 
ised by genius. It is necessary for those 
who survey the ground in reference to the 
poem, to be informed that the old road from 
Ayr to this spot, by which Burns supposed 
his hero to have approached Alloway Kirk, 



was considerably to the west of the present 
one, which, nevertheless, has existed since 
before the time of Burns. Upon a field 
about a quarter of a mile to the north-west 
of the kirk, is a single tree enclosed with a 
paling, the last reiuuaut of a group whicu 
covered 

' the cairn 



Where hunters faud the murdered bairn ; 
and immediately beyond tint objact is 
-the ford. 



Wliere in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ;' 

namely, a ford over a small burn (which 
soon after joins the Doon), being two places 
which Tam o' Shanter is described as having 
passed on his solitary way. The road then 
made a sweep towards the river, and, pas- 
sing a well which trickles down into the 
Doon, where formerly stood a thorn, on 
which an individual, called in the poem 
' Muugo's mither,' committed suicide, ap- 
proached Alloway Kirk upon the west. 
These circumstances may here appear trivial, 
but it is surprising with what interest any 
visitor to the real scene will inquire into, and 
behold every part of which can be associated, 
however remotely, with the poem of Tam 
o' Shanler. The churchyard contains several 
old monuments, of a very humble descrip- 
tion, marking the resting-places of undistin- 
guished persons. Among those persons rest 
William Burness, father of the poet, over 
whose grave the son had piously raised a 
small stone, recording his name and the 
date of his death, together with the short 
poetical tribute to his memory, wiiich is 
copied in the works of the bard. But, for 
this monument, long ago destroyed and 
carried away piecemeal, there is now sub- 
stituted one of somewhat finer proportions; 
and the churchyard of Alloway has now 
become fashionable with the dead, as well as 
the living. Its little area is absolutely 
crowded with modern monuments, referring 
to persons, many of whom have been brought 
from considerable distances, to take the r 
rest in this doubly consecrated ground. 
Among these is one to the memory of a per- 
son named Tyrie. who, visiting the spot 
some years ago, h.ippened to express a wish 
that he might be laid in All .way church- 
yard, and, as fate wo.iid have a was interred 
in the spot he had pointed out within a 
fortnight. Nor is this all ; for even the 
neighbouring gentry are now contending 
for departments in this fold of the departed, 
and it is probable that the elegant niausoled 
of r?'ik and wealth will soon be justlia^ 



490 



NOTES TO THE 



with the stunted obelisks of humble worth 
and noteless poverty." — Chambers's Jour- 
nal. 

Page 148, Note 140. — It is well known 
that witches, or any other evil spirits, have 
no power to follow a poor wight any further 
than the middle of the nearest running 
stream. And, at the some time, it may not 
be superfluous to hint to the beniijhted tra- 
veller, that when he is unfortunate enough 
to fall in with the wierd sisters, or with bogies 
on his road, — whatever be the danger of 
gouig forward, it is far less than that of 
retreat. — Burns. 

VkQv, 148, Note 141. — "In my early 
years nothing less would serve me than 
courting the tragic muse. I was, I think, 
about eigiiteen or nineteen when I sketched 
the outlines of a tragedy, forsooth : but the 
bursting of a cloud of family misfortunes, 
which had for some time threatened us, 
prevented my farther progress. In those 
days I never wrote down any thing ; so, 
e.tcept a speech or two, the whole has es- 
caped ray memory. Thesj lines, which I 
most distinctly remembsr, were the exclam- 
ation from a great character — great in 
occasional instances of generosity, and dar- 
ing at times in villanies. He is supposed 
to meet with a child of misery, and to burst 
out into this rhapsody." — Burns. 

Page 148, Note 142. — "There is scarcely 
any earthly object gives me more — I do not 
know if I should call it pleasure — but some- 
tlnng which exalts me — something which en- 
raptures me — than to walk on the sheltered 
side of a wood or plantation, in a cloudy 
wniter's day, and hear the stormy wind 
howling amongst the trees, and raving over 
the plam. It is my best season of devotion ; 
my mind is rapt up in a kind of enthusiasm 
to Him, who in the pompous language of 
the Hebrew bard, " Walks on the wings of 
the wind." In one of these seasons, just 
after a train of misfortunes, I composed 
Winter, a Dirge. — Burns. According to 
Gilbert Burns, this is one of Burns's earliest 
pieces, and he has assigned 1784 as its 
date. 

Page 148, Note 143. — A quotation from 
Young. 

Page 149, Note 144. — "There was a 
period of my life that my spirit was well nigh 
broken by repeated losses and disasters, 
which threatened, and indeed effected, the 
utter ruin of my fortune. My body, too, 
was attacked by that most dreadful dis- 
temper, a hypochondria, or confirmed melan- 
choly. In tliis wretched state, the recollection 
of which makes me yet shudder, I hung my 



harp on the willow trees, except in * ■■■m- 
lucid intervals, in one of which I compose.) 
these hues." — Burns. 

Page 149, Note 145.— The "Prayer," 
and the " Stanzas," were composed when 
fainting fits, and other alarming symptoms 
of a pleurisy, or some other dangerous dis- 
order (which indeed still threatens me) first 
put nature on the alarm." — Burns. 

Page 149, Note 146. — Ruis.seau, is the 
French, as Burn is the Scottisii, term for 
stream. Ruisseaux is the plural of Riiissenu, 
as Barns is of Burn; and hence the hu- 
morous translation of his own name in the 
l']le4'y of Robert Burns. 

Page 150, Note 147. — The Rev. James 
Steven, afterwards one of the Scotch clersry 
in London, and ultimately minister of Kil- 
winning, in Ayrshire, was the hero of this 
piece of levity. 1 he tradition in the family 
of Mr. Gavin Hamilton is, that the poet, in 
passing to the church at Mauchline, called 
at Mr. Hamilton's, who, biing coiiliiied with 
the gout, could not accompany him, but 
desired him, as parents do with cliildren, to 
bring home a note of the text. At the con- 
clusion of the service, Burns called again, 
and, sitting down for a minute at JMr. 
Hamilton's business table, scribbled these 
verses, by way of a compliance with the 
request. From a memorandum by Burns 
himself, it would appi ar that there was a 
wager with Mr. Hamilton as to his producing 
a poem in a certain timf, and that he gamed 
it by producing The Calf. 

Page 15 J, Note 143. — ^"At the time 
when Burns was be;;iniiing to exercise his 
powers as a poet, theological contro\crsy 
raged araongt the clergy and laity of his 
native country. The prominent points re- 
lated to the doctrines of original sin and the 
Trinity ; a scarcely subordinate one referred 
to the right of patrona'jre. Burns took the 
moderate and liberal side, and seems to have 
delighted in doing all he could to torment 
the zealous party, who were designated as 
the Aiild Lirj'its. The first of Ins poetic 
offspring that saw the light, was a burlesque 
lamentation on a quarrel between two 
reverend Calvinists, which he circulated 
anonymously, and which, " with a certain 
description of the clergy, as well as laity, 
met witli roars of applause." This was the 
Twa Ht-nls. The heroes of the piece were 
the llev. Alexander Moodie, minister of 
Riccarton, and the Rev. John Russell, minis- 
ter of a chapel of ease, at Kilmarnock, both 
of tliem eminent as leiders of the Auld 
Light party. In riding home together they 
got into a warm dispute regarding some 



POEMS OF BURNS. 



m 



point of doctrine, or of discipline, which led i glasses, wrote a neat small hand, and had 
to a riiptnre that appeared nearly incurahle. | not a furrow in his cheek or a wrinkle on 
Tliey appear to have afterwards quarrelled his hrow. He was Moderator of the General 
about a question of parish boundaries; and Asseinbly in 1775. He had a fine old 
when tlie point was debated in the Presby- I clergynianly-kind of wit. In the house of a 



tery of Irvine, in presence of a great multi- 
tude of the people (including 13urns), they 
lost temper entirely, aud "abused each 
other,' says Mr. Lockhart, "with a fiery 
vehemence of personal invective such as has 
been long banished from all popular assem- 
blies, wherein the laws of courtesy are en- 
forced by those of a certain unwritten code." 
Allan Cunningham gives a popular story of 
this f[uarrel having ultimately come to blows; 
but if such had been the case, the poet 
would certainly have adverted to it : — 

CH.\MBERS. 

Page 150, Note 149. — Russell is de- 
scribed as a "large, robust, dark-com- 
plexioned man, imperturbably grave, fierce 
of temper, and of a stern expression of 
countenance." He preached with much ve- 
hemence, aud at the height of a tremendous 
voice, which, iii certain states of the atmos- 
phere, caught the ear at the distance of more 
than a mile. He subsequently became minis- 
ter at Stirling, where he died at an advanced 
age. 

Page 150, Note 150.— Dr. Robert Dun- 
can, minister of Dundonald. Excepting in 
his limbs, which were short, he bore a strong 
(lersoiial resemblance to Charles James 
Fox. 

Page 150, Note 151.— Rev. William 
Peebles, of Newton-upon-A.yr. See notes 
to Holy Fair, and Kirk's Alarm. 

Page 150, Note 152. — Rev. William 
Auld, minister of Mauchline. 

Page 150, Note 153.— Rev. Dr. Dal- 
rymple, one of the ministers of Ayr. He died 
in 1814, having enjoyed his charge for the 
uncommon period of sixty-eight years. 

Page 150, Note 154. — Rev. William 
M'Gill, one of the ministers of Ayr, colleague 
of Dr. Ualrymple. See note to Kirlc's 
Alarm. 

Page 150, Note 155. — Minister of St. 
Quivox, an eidightened man, and elegant 
preacher. He has been succeeded in the 
parish by his son. 

Page 150, Note 156. — Dr. Andrew 
Shaw, of Craigie, and Dr. David Shaw of 
Croylton. Dr. Andrew was a man of ex- 
cellent abilities, but extremely diffident — 
a fine speaker and an accomplished scholar. 
Dr. David, in personal respects, was a 
piodigy. He was ninety-one years of age 
before he required an assistant. At that 
period of life lie read without the uae of 



man of raidt, where he spent the night, an 
alarm took place after midni','ht, wliich 
brought all the members of the family from 
their dormitories. The doctor encountered 
a countess in her chemise, which occasioned 
some mutual confusion. At breakfast next 
morning, a lady asked him what he thought 
when he met the countess in the lobby. 
" Oh, my lady," said he, " I was in a trance." 
Trance in Scotland signifies a passage or 
vestibule, as well as a swoon. Tliis amiable 
man died, April 26, 1810, in the ninety- 
second year of his age, and sixty-first of 
his ministry. 

Page 150, Note 157. — There were three 
brothers of this name, descended from the 
church historian, and all ministers — one at 
Eastwood, their ancestor's charge, the second 
at Stevenston, and the third, Dr. Peter 
■\Voodrow, at Tarbolton. Dr. Peter is the 
person named in the poem. The assistant 
and successor, mentioned in the verse, was 
M'Math, elsewhere alluded to. 

Page 151, Note 158.— The Rev. Mr. 
(afterwards Dr.) Smith, who figures in the 
Holy Fair as one of the tent preachers. 

Page 151, Note 159. — The hero of this 
daring exposition of Calvanistic theology, 
was William Fisher, a farmer in the neigh- 
bourhood of iMauchline, and an elder in Air 
Auld's session. He had signalised himself 
in the prosecution of Mr. Hamilton, cUe- 
where alluded to ; and Burns appears to 
have written these verses in retribution of 
the rancour he had displayed on that occasion. 
Fisiier was, probably, a poor narrow-witted 
creature, with just sufficient sense to make a 
show of sanctity. When removed to another 
parish, and there acting as an elder, he was 
found guilty of some peculations in the funds 
of the poor — to which Burns alludes in the 
Kirlc's Alarm. Ultimately, coming home 
one night from market in a cart, in a state 
of intoxication, he fell from the vehicle, and 
was found lifeless in a ditch next morning. 

Page 151, Note 160. — These essays 
were published in exposition of the doctrines 
of Dr. Mc Gill, so violently persecuted by 
the heroes of orthodoxy. 

Page 152, Note 161.— Dr. Taylor of 
Norwich, whose doctrines were advocated by 
Gondie and McGill. 

Page 152, Note 162. — A hearty partisan 
of the heterodox theological school, remark- 
able amongst his fellow-farmers of the 



43 



492 



NOTES TO THE 



neiglibourhood, as a jolly companion and 
liumorous, though somewhat coarse satirist 
of the orthodox heroes. He occupied a farm 
called Adam hill, near Tarbolton. 

Page 152, Note 163. — "A certain humo- 
rous dream of his was then making some 
noise in the country-side." — Burns. Mr. 
Cunningham gives the followuig account of 
the dream — "Lord K., it is said, was in the 
practice of calling all his familiar acquaint- 
ances brutes. ' Well, ye brute, how are ye 
. to-day ? ' was his usual mode of salutation. 
Once in company, his lordship, having 
indulged in this rudeness more than his 
wont, turned to Kankine and exclaimed, 
•Brute, are ye dumb? have ye no queer 
sly story to tell us ? ' 'I have nae story,' 
baid Rankine; 'but last night I had an odd 
dream.' 'Out with it, by all means,' said 
the other. 'Aweel, ye see,' said Rankine, 'I 
dreamed I was dead, and that for keeping 
other than gude company on earth, I was 
sent down stairs. When I knocked at the 
low door, wha should open it but the deil ; 
he was iu a rough humour, and said, ' ^^^la 
may ye be, and what's your name ? ' ' jMy 
name,' quoth I, 'is John Rankine, and my 
dwelling-place was Adam-hill.' ' Gae wa' 
wi' ye,' quoth Satan, ' ye canna be here ; 
ye're ane o' Lord K.'s brutes — hell's fou o' 
them already.' " This sharp rebuke, it is said, 
polished for the future his lordship's speech. 

Page 152, Note 164. — Some occurrence 
is evidently here alluded to. We have 
heard the following account of it, but cannot 
vouch for its correctness : — A noted zealot 
of the opposite party (the name of Holy 
Willie has been mentioned, but more 
probably, from the context, the individual 
must have been a clergyman), calling on Mr. 
Rankine on business, the latter invited him 
to take a glass. With much entreaty, the 
visitor was prevailed on to make a very 
small modicum of toddy. The stranger 
remarking that the liquor proved very strong, 
Mr. Rankine pointed out, as any other land- 
lord would have done, that a little more hot 
water might improve it. The kettle was 
accordingly resorted to, but still the liquor 
appeared over-potent. Again he filled up. 
Still no diinnaition of strength. All this 
time he was sipping and sipping. By and 
bye, the liquor began to appear only too 
weak. To cut short a tale, the reluctant 
guest ended by tumbling dead-drunk on the 
floor. The trick played upon him, requires, 
of course, no explanation.— Chambers. 

Page 15:2, Note 165. — An allusion to 
some song which had been promised by John 
Rankine to Burns. 



Page 152, Note 166. — This epistle was 
first published by Lapraik himself amongst 
his own works. 

Page 153, Note 167.— At that timn 
enjoying the appointment of assistant and 
successor to the Rev. Peter Woodrow, minister 
of Tarbolton. He was an excellent preaclier, 
and a decided moderate. He enjoyed the 
friendship of the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, 
and of Burns ; but unhappily fell into low 
spirits, in consequence of his dependent 
situation, and became dissipated. After 
being for some time tutor to a family in the 
Western Isles, it is said that this unfortunate 
man ultimately enlisted as a common soldier. 

Page 153, Note 163.— Gawn, Gawm, 
Gavin. Alluding to Gavin Hamilton. 

Page 154, Note 109. — All the allusions 
contained in this poem are of such a nature 
and refer to such public events as will be 
readily understood : and there is something 
exceedingly humorous in the exposition of 
the views and remarks of the peasantry 
respecting the great leaders, or great events, 
which happen to become matters of noto- 
riety. 

Page 154, Note 170. — An allusion to 
the unanticipated return of a considerable 
majority of Scottish members in support of 
William Pitt, upon the election incidental to 
the opening of his administration. 

Page 156, Note 171. — An incident 
which actually occurred, and which was 
witnessed by Burns, at Mauchline, in Decem- 
ber 1785. 

Page 156, Note 172. — Lunardi Bonnet. 
The fashions in those days, as in these, were 
apt to receive denominations from persons 
or events which hau created general sen- 
sation. In our time we have our Kossuth, 
or Klapka hats and the like. l,unardi had 
made several balloon ascents during the 
summer of 1785, in Scotland, and as these 
excited much interest at the time, Lunar- 
di's name was suivant les regies, appended to 
various articles of dress, and to bonnets 
amongst others. 

Page 156, Note 173.— In May 1785, 
Mr. Pitt made a considerable addition to the 
number of taxed articles, amongst which 
were female servants, in order to liquidate 
ten millions of unfunded debt. The poem 
seems to have been called forth by the 
receipt of the next annual mandate from 
Mr. Aiken, of Ayr, surveyor of taxes for 
the district. 

Page 156, Note 174.— The off foru 
horse, or leader, in the plough. 

Page 156, Note 175. — The off draught 
horse iu the plough. 



I 



POEMS OF BURNS. 



49. 



Page I5fl, Note 17G.- -The familiar ex- 
pression for Kilmarnock, arwngat the pea- 
santry. 

Page 15G, Note 177. — The near wheel 
horse in the plough. 

Page 1^7 Note 178. — An allusion to 
one of the questions (namely " What is 
effectual calling?") in the Catechism pro- 
pounded by the Westminster Assembly of 
Divines, and which continues to preserve its 
currency throughout Scotland. 

Page 157, Note 179. — A child born to 
the poet by a servant girl of the name of 
Elizabeth Paton. She grew up exceedingly 
like her father, and became the wife of Mr. 
John Bishop, overseer at Polkemmet in Lin- 
hthgowshire, and died there, Dec. 8, 1817. 

Page 157, Note 180. — Tooiie lived in 
Mauchline, and dealt in cows. The age of 
these animals is marked by rings on their 
liorns, which may of course be cut and 
polished off, so as to cause the cow to 
appear younger than it is. This villainy is 
called snech-drawing, and he who perpetrates 
it is a sneck-drawer. 

Page 157. Note 181. — The airlesa — 
earnest money. (See also Glossary.) 

Page 157, Note 182. — A writer in Ayr, 
and particular friend of the poet, Mr. Chal- 
mers, asked Burns to write a poetic epistle in 
his behalf to a young lady whom he ad- 
mired. Burns, who had seen the lady, but 
was scarcely acquainted witli her, complied 
by penning the above. — Chambers. 

Page 185, Note 183. — "These verses, in 
the handwriting of Burns, are copied from 
a bank note, in the possession of Mr. James 
F. Gracie, of Dumfries. The note is of the 
Bank of Scotland, and is dated so far back 
as 1st ]\Iarch 1780. The lines exhibit the 
strong marks of the poet's vigorous pen, 
and are evidently an extempore effusion 
~>i his characteristic feelings. They bear 
internal proof of their having been written 
■\t that interesting period of his life, when 
»-.e was on the point of leaving the country 
on account of tiie unfavourable manner in 
which his proposals for marrying his ' bonny 
Jean ' (his future wife) were at first received 
by her parents." — Motherwell. 

Page 138, Note 184. — There is some 
doubt as to the authenticity of these pretty 
lines. It has been averred upon very good 
authority that the manuscript in the liand 
writing of Robert Burns, is yet extant, and 

in the possession of Mr. A . At any 

rate, as the verses are not unworthy of the 
bard of Ayr, they may be accepted. They 
were first published at Liverpool, in a peri- 
odical called the Kaleidoscope. 



Page 158, Notr 185. — ^Tliese verses 
appear to have been written in the ili^tress- 
ing summer of 178(3, when the poet's pros- 
pects were at the dreariest, and the very 
wife of his fondest affections had forsaken 
liiin. From tiie tiniL", and other circiiia- 
stauces, we may conjecture that the 
present alluded to was a copy of the Kil- 
marnock edition of poems, then newly pub- 
lished. The verses appeared in the 
Sun newspaper, April 18.23. — Cham- 
bers. 

Page 153. Note 186.— "The first time 
Robert heard the spinnet played upon, was 
at the house of Dr. Laurie, minister of Lou- 
d ui (about October 1786). Dr. L. had 
several dau'^'hters — one of them played ; the 
father and the mother led down the dance ; 
the rest of the sisters, the brother, the poet, 
and the other guests, mixed in it. It was a 
delightful family scene for our poet, then 
lately introduced to the world. His mind 
was roused to a poetic enthusiasm, and the 
stanzas were left in the room where he 
slept." — Gilbert Burn.''. Dr. Laurie was 
the medium through which Dr. Blacklock 
transmitted the letter, by which Burns was 
arrested on his fligiit to the West Indies, 
and induced to go to Edinburgh. This 
letter has since been in the possession of the 
Rev. Mr. Balfour Graham, minister of North 
Berwick, who is connected with the family 
by marriage. Dr. Laurie, and his son, who 
was his successor in the pastoral charge of 
the parish, are both deceased. 
Page 159, Note 1 87-— Diogenes. 
Page 159, Note 188. — This meeting 
took place, October 23, 1786, at Catriiie, the 
seat of Professor Stewart, to which Burns 
was now taken for the first time by .Air. 
Mackenzie, surgeon, Mauchline. Lord Daer, 
who was eldest son to Dunbar, fourth Earl 
of Selkirk, and had been a pupil of Mr. 
Stewart, was a young nobleman of the 
greatest promise. . He had just returned 
from France, where he cultivated the society 
of some of those men who afterwards figured 
in the Revolution, and had contracted their 
sentiments. He was cut off in November, 
1794, leaving the succession open to his 
younger brother, the late Thomas, Earl ot 
Selkirk, distinguished by his exertions in 
the cause of emigration. — Cii.vmbers. 

Page 159, Note 189 — Major Logan, 8 
retired military officer, still remembered in 
Ayrshire for his wit and humour — of which 
two specimens may be given. Asked by au 
Ayr hostess if he would have water to the 
glass of s))irits slie was bringing to him on 
his order, he said, with a grin, "No, » woidd 



491 



NOTES TO THE 



rather you took the water out o't." Visited 
oil his (leatlibed by Mr. Cuthill, one of the 
ministers of Ayr, who remarked that it 
would take fortitude to support such suffer- 
ings as he was visited with ; " Ay." said the 
poor wit, "it would take fiftitmle." At the 
time when the above letter was addressed to 
him, Major Logan lived at Parkhouse, in 
Ayrshire, with his mother and sister, the 
Jiiss Logan to whom Burns presented a copy 
of Beattie's Poems, with verses. The major 
Mas a capital violinist. 

Page 160, Note 190.— With the cha- 
racteristic humour with which he WTOte the 
elegy and epitaph of Thomas Samson and 
his own elegy. Burns wTote this address to 
himself, when he anticipated his departure 
for the West Indies, and before the brilliant 
career of his reception at Edinburgh had 
fixed his views as to life. 

Page 161, Note 191.— Tlie haggis is a 
dish peculiar to Scotland, though supposed to 
be of French extraction. It is composed of 
minced offal of mutton, mixed with oatmeal 
and suet, and boiled in a sheep's stomach. 
When made in EUpa's way, with " a cum 
o' spice " (see the Gentle Shepherd}, it is an 
agreeable, albeit a somewhat heavy dish, 
always providing that no horror be felt at 
the idea of its preparation. Tlie Ediiibitrgh 
Literary Journal of "Noxemhcr 7, 1829, makes 
the following statement : — " About sixteen 
years ago, there resided at Mauchliue a Mr. 
Kobert Morrison, cabinet-maker. He was a 
great crony of Burns, and it was in Mr 
Morrison's house that the poet usually spent 
the ' mids o' the day ' on Sunday. It was in 
this house that he wrote his celebrated Ad- 
dress to a Hagi/is, after partaking liberally of 
that dish, as prepared by Mrs. Morrison." 
The Ettrick Shepherd has, on the contrary, 
averred that the poem was written in the 
house of Mr. Andrew Bruce, Castle Hill, 
Edinburgh, after in like manner partaking of 
the dish. It was first published in the Scots 
M(i;iii:iiie for January 1787. 

Pa(je 162, Note 192. — Miss Logan, 
sister of JMajor Logan, to whom also Burns 
had previously addressed a poetical epistle. 
(Sie antca, page 159.) 

Pa(;e 162, Note 193.— Mr. Hay Camp- 
bell, of wh<im we have had several occasions 
to speak as the subject of complimentary 
allusions. He was subsequently president 
of the Court of Cession, and died in 1823. 

Page 162, Note 194.— The Honourable 
Henry Erskine, whose talents as an advocate 
had secured him a distinguished reputation. 
He died in 1817. 

Page 162, Note 195.— Mrs. Scott of 



Wauchope, in Roxburgshire — a lady of taste 
and talent, and fitted to use the pencil as 
well as the pen — had addressed (February 
1787) the lines, printed in small type, to 
Burns, which called forth the ensuing verses, 
as a reply or acknowledgment. 

Page 163, Note 196 —Mr. Woods had 
been the friend of Fergusson. He was long 
a favourite actor in Edinburgh, and was him 
self a man of some poetical talent. He died, 
at his house on the Terrace, Edinburgh, 
December 14, 1802. 

Page 164, Note 197.— The hero of Mac- 
kenzie's Man of FeeUng, of which Burns 
always spoke in such warm terms of admira- 
tion. 

Page 164, Note 198.— Written at Sel- 
kirk, !May 1787, in the course of the poet's 
southern tour. Mr, Creecli was the poet's 
Edinburgh publisher, and seems at this time 
to have been in high favour with him. Burns 
afterwards found reason considerably to 
change his feelings towards Creech, who 
appears to have given him much uneasiness 
by protracting the settlement of their ac- 
counts. The truth is, that Mr. Creech, 
though a man of literary talent, great plea- 
santr}' as a companion, and the first publisher 
of his day, had a weakness about money 
matters, and could scarcely draw upon his 
ample funds for the liquidation of an ordi- 
nary debt, without something more than all- 
common persuasives. He enjoyed high re- 
putation as a teller of quaint stories, and 
lived on familiar terms with many of the 
literary men of his day. His house, in one 
of the elevated floors of a tenement in the 
High Street, accessible from a wretched 
alley called Craig's Close, was frequented in 
the mornings by company of that kind, to 
such an extent that the meeting used to be 
called Creech's Levee. Burns here enume- 
rates as attending it, Dr. James Gregory, 
author of the Conspectus Medicina; ; Tytler, 
of Woodhouselee, author of the Defence of 
of !Mary Q,neen of Scots ; Dr. William 
Greenfield, professor of rhetoric in the Edin- 
burgh University ; Henry Mackenzie, author 
of The Man of Feeling; and Dugald Stewart, 
professor of moral philosophy. Mr. Creech 
more than once filled the chair of Lord Pro- 
vost of Edinburgh, and is noted as the only 
person who ever saved money off the salary 
then attached to the oHice. With reference 
to his penurious bachelorly habits, a native 
caricaturist once set the town in a roar by 
depicting, in connection, the respective 
kitchens of the chief magistrates of London 
and Edinburgh, the former exhibiting every 
appearance of plenty that could be expectef' 



POEMS OF BURNS. 



49.: 



in a Jar^e and miinifirent establislimetit, and 
the latter ilisplayiii^ a poor old pinched 
housekeeper spitiiuiijf beside a narrow fire- 
place, where tiie cat was perched for warmth 
upon a r/atla'riii(/ coal. Mr. Creech died iu 
1815, aned 70 years. — Chambers. 

Page 164, Note 199.— Edinburgh. 

Page 164, Note 200.— The Chamber of 
Commerce of Edinburgh, of which Mr. 
Creech was secretary. 

Page 165, Note 201. — James Hunter 
Blair was born at Ayr, in 1741. He pur- 
sued a successful commercial career, and be- 
came a member of the banking firm of Sir 
M'illiam P^orbes and Co., and died on the 
first of Julv, 1787, universallv esteemed. 

Page 165, Note 202.— The Royal Park 
of Ilolvrood. 

Page 165, Note 203.— St. Anthony's 
AVell. 

Page 165, Note 204.— St. Anthony's 
Chapel. 

Page 166, Note 205.— "The first object 
of interest that occurs upon the public road 
after leaving Blair, is a cha-m in the hill on 
the right hand, through which the little river 
Bruar falls in a series of beautiful cascades. 
Formerly, the falls of the Bruar were un- 
adorned by wood ; but the poet Burns, being 
conducted to see them (September 1787), 
after visiting the Duke of Athole, recom- 
mended that they should be invested with 
that necessary decoration. Accordingly, trees 
have been thickly planted along the chasm, 
and are now far advanced to maturity. 
Throughout this young forest, a walk has 
been cut, and a number of fantastic little 
grottoes erected for the conveniency of those 
who visit the spot. The river not oidy makes 
several distinct falls, but rushes on through 
a channel, whose roughness and rugged 
sublimity adds greatly to the merits of the 
scene, as an object of interest among tourists." 
— Picture of ticolland. 

Page 167, Note 206.— Robert Dundas 
of Arniston, elder brother of Viscount Mel- 
ville; born 1713, appointed president iu 1760, 
and died December 13, 1787, after a short 
illness. Burns sent a copy of the poem to 
Dutidas's son, afterwards Lord Advocate and 
Lord Ciiief Baron, but received no answer to 
it, which he greatly resented. 

Page 168, Note 207.— Printer, Edin- 
burgh — author of the Philosophy of Natural 
History, and member of the Scottish Antiqua- 
rian Society. He died in 1795, iu the fifty- 
fifth year of his age. 

Page 168, Note 208.— A club to which 
Burns and Smellie belonged, and which met 
ia Douglas's tavern iu the Anchor Close. 

43 



Edinburgh. It took its name of Crnchallnn 
Fencihles from a beiutiful plaintive IliglilauJ 
air, Cro CAo/ciH^literally Coliu's Cattle — ■ 
which Douglas occasionally sang with much 
effect to his guests. 

Page 168, Note 209.— William Tytlrr, 
Esq. of Woodhouselee (born 17 1 1, died 179.;i), 
a member of the Society of Writers to the 
Signet, had published in 1759 " An Enquiry, 
Historical and Critical, into the Evidence 
against iMary tiueen of Scots," in which the 
favourable side of her case is adopted. 

Page 169, Note 210. — One of a series 
intended for a projected work, under the title 
of The Poet's Prorjress. These lines were 
sent as a specimen, accompanied by a letter, 
to Professor Dugald Stewart, in which it is 
thus noticed: — "The fragment begiunmg, a 
little, upright, pert, tart, Szc, 1 have nut 
shown to any man living, till I now send it 
to you. It forms the post\ilata, the axiom.s, 
the definition of a character, which, if it 
appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of 
lights. This particular part I send you, 
merely as a sample of my hand at portrait 
sketching. 

Page 169, Note 211.— For more ex- 
plicit particulars in respect of Jliss Cruick- 
shank, to whom these lines are addressed, 
the reader is referred to the notes on the 
song entitled the Rosebud. 

Page 169, Note 212. — It is somewhat 
remarkable how comparatively few of the 
pieces written by Burns from this time for- 
ward have been addressed directly to " Cla- 
rinda," whose influence over him is so 
powerfully evinced in the letters (already 
mentioned in that portion of this volume 
which is devoted to the poet's correspon- 
dence), which passed between him and this 
fair object of admiration. In the foregoing 
notes to the life we have already had occasion 
to enter into some particulars respecting the 
career of Mrs. McLeliose (Clarinda), and we 
shall have further occasion to allude to her 
hereafter, on which account great detail in 
this place would be superfluous. It should, 
however, be remarked that the beautiful song 
Ml/ Nannie's awa, and some others of the 
most exquisite productions of Burns, were 
dedicated to his passion for Clarinda,althoiigh 
she be not directly invoked. 

Page 170, Note 213. — An early friend 
of Burns at Kilmafuock. These lines were 
written in the year 1788, at the period when 
Burns was commencing his household and 
farming career at Ellisland. 

Page 170, Note 214.— The first of these 
sets of verses was written in Jtnie, and thi< 
second in December. 1788, with reference to 



k 



490 



NOri'.S TO THE 



a hermitage in the grounds of Friars' Carse, 
near Elhslaiid, the seat of the poet's friend. 
Captain Riddel of Glenriddel. 

Page 171, Notis 215. — Captain Riddel 
had. in the course of poring over a news- 
paper, fallen upon some critical remarks 
respecting some production of Burns, and 
had accordingly despatched the paper to the 
poet, that he might have an opportunity of 
observing what was said of him. And it was 
in returning this paper that Burns accompa- 
nied it with the comical note in verse, 
entitled an "Extempore to Captain Riddel." 

Page 171, Note 216.— "The Mother's 
Lament was composed partly with a view to 
Mrs. Fergusson of Craigdarroch, and partly to 
the worthy patroness of my early unknown 
muse, Mrs. Stewart of Afton." — Burns. 

Page 172, Note 217. — "In January 
last (1789), on my road to Ayrshire, I had to 
put up at Bailie Wighara's in Sanquhar, the 
only tolerable inn in the place. The frost 
was keen, and the grim evening and howling 
wind were ushering in a night of snow and 
drift. My horse and I were both much 
fatigued with the labours of the day ; and, 
just as my friend the badie and I were bidding 
defiance to the storm, over a smoking bowl, 
in wheels the funeral pageantry of the late 
Mrs. Oswald ; and poor I am forced to brave 
all the terrors of the tempestuous night, and 
jade my horse — my young favourite horse, 
whom I had just christened Pegasus — farther 
on thro\igh the wildest hills and moors of 
Ayrshire to the next inn ! The powers of 
poetry and prose sank under me when I 
would describe what I felt. Suffice it to say, 
tiiat when a good fire at New Cumnock had 
so far recovered my frozen sinews, I sat 
down and wrote the enclosed ode." — Burns. 

Page 172, Note 218. — Mr. James Ten- 
nant had been an early and constant friend 
of Robert Burns and his family, and had 
taken an active part in the selection of the 
farm of EUisland for the poet. 

Page 173, Note 219.— Mr. Cunningham 
mentions that the poor animal whose suffer- 
ings excited this burst of indignation on the 
part of the poet, was shot by a lad named 
James Thomson, son of a farmer near Ellis- 
land. Burns, who was walking beside the 
Kith at the moment, execrated the young 
man, and spoke of throwing him into the 
water. 

Page 174, Note 220— At the period at 
which this biting and well-directed rebuke 
from the pen of Burns appeared, the neigh- 
bourhood, and, in fact, the whole Scottish 
Kirk was agitated by the most violent con- 
troversy, and the Ecclesiastical Courts were 



engrossed with the persecution vindictit : ) 
instituted against Dr. William McGfiil. 
This was about the month of August, 1739. 
The original ground of this controversy, in 
which Dr. McGill was now figuring, was 
this: — In 1786 he had published a treatisj, 
entitled, A Practical Essay on the Death of 
Jesus Christ, in two Parts — I. Containing the 
History — 2. T/ie Doctrine of his Death. Dr, 
McGill was at that time one of the ministers 
of the parochial church of Ayr, and his 
treatise was alleged to be fraught with Arian 
and Socinian doctrine.s, which were deemed 
injurious to the interests of the clergy. Dr. 
McGill thus became the butt of many at- 
tacks levelled, partly at his person and 
character, and partly at his work ; hut he 
took little or no notice of any of these sal- 
lies, until a minister, who had hitherto 
been a warm and personal friend, became 
his most bitter assailant. This was Dr. 
William Peebles, of Newton-upon-Ayr, who 
in his centenary sermon, preached on tiieSth 
of November, 1783, gratuitously denounced 
the treatise as heretical, and Dr. McGill as 
a person " who with one hand received the 
privileges of the church, while with the other 
he was endeavouring to plunge the keenest 
poignard into her heart." McGill pui)lislied 
a defence, which led, in April, 17S9, to the 
introduction of the case into the prcsbyterial 
court of Ayr, and subsequently into that of 
the Synod of Glasgow and Ayr. Meanwhile, 
the public out of doors was agitating the 
question with the keenest interest, and the 
strife of the liberal and zealous parties in 
the church had reached a painful extreme. 
It was now that Burns took up the pen in 
behalf of McGill, whom, it is probable, he 
sincerely looked on as a worthy and enlight- 
ened person suffering an unworthy persecu- 
tion. The war raged, till, in April 1790, the 
case came on for trial before the Synod, when 
McGill stopped further procedure, by giving 
in a document, expressive of his deep regret 
for the disquiet he had occasioned, ex|)laining 
the challenged passages of his book, and 
declaring his adherence to the standards of 
the church on the points of doctrine in 
question. Dr. McGill died March 30tl^ 
1807, at the age of seventy-six, and in the 
forty-sixth year of his ministry. — Abridged 
from Murray's Literary History of GnJ.'a- 
wai/. 

Page 174, Note 221.— Dr. McGill. 

Page 174, Note 222. — Upon the com- 
mencement of the proceedings against Di. 
McGill before the Synod, the municipal 
authorities of Ayr published a testimonial iu 
the newspapers, averring their high esteem 



POEMS OF BURNS. 



497 



for the defendant, both as a man and u 
minister. 

Page 174, Note 223.— Mr. John Ballan- 
tine, the Provost of the town of Ayr, -wLo 
had taken an active jiart in the demonstra- 
tion in favour of Dr. McGill. 

P.\GE 174, Note 224. — It was by Mr. 
Robert Aiken (the lawyer, the friend of 
15urns, and he to whom the " Cotters' Sa- 
turday Nijclit" IS dedicated) that Dr. Me 
Gill was defended before the Synod. jNIr. 
Aiken, as we have before had occasion to 
remark, was not a little distinguished for his 
eloquence as an advocate. 

Page 174, Note 225.— Dr. William Dal- 
ryniple, as remarkable for his humble, modest 
demeanour, as for his superior talents and 
worth. He was senior minister to the col- 
legiate church of Ayr. 

"^Page 174, Note' 226.— John Russell, the 
preacher, who also figures in the Holy Fair. 

Page 174, Note 227. — The Rev. James 
McKiu, who figures as the hero of the 
Ordiiialioti. 

Page 174,Note 228. — Alexander Moodie, 
the minister of Riccarton, who figures also in 
the Twn Herds. 

Page 174. Note 229.— The Rer. Jlr. 
Aiild, of jMauchline. 

Page 174, Note 230. — The clerk was 
Mr. Gavin Hamilton, whose defence against 
the charges preferred by Mr. Auld, had 
occasioned much trouble to this clergyman. 

Page 174, Note 231. — Mr. Grant, of 
Ochiltree. 

Page 174, Note 232.— Mr. Young, of 
Cumnock. 

Page 174, Note 233.— The Rev. Dr. 
Peebles. He had e.xcited some ridicule by 
a line in a poem on the Centenary of the 
Revolution : 

' And bound in Liberty's endearing chain." 

The poetry of this gentleman is said to have 
been indifferent. He translated the DavuUes 
of Cowley, which some of his brethren, 
not exactly understanding what was meant, 
took the liberty of calling Dr. Peebles' " Daft 
Ideas." — Chambers. 

Page 174, Note 234. — "Dr. Andrew 
Mitchell, !Monkton. He was so rich as to 
be able to keep his carriage. Extreme love 
of money, and a strange confusion of ideas, 
characterised this presbyter. In his prayer 
for the royal family, he would express 
himself thus : — " Bless the King — his 
Majesty the Queen — her JIajestythe Prince 
of V\'ales." The word chemistry he pro- 
nounced in three different ways — hemistry, 
sliemistry, and tchemistry — Hut never, by 

K K. 



any chance, in the right way. Notwithstand- 
ing the antipathy he could scarcely help 
feehng towards Burns, one of the poets' 
comic verses would make him laugh heartily, 
and confess that, "after all, he was a druU 
fellow." — Chambers. ' 

Page 174, Note 235.— Rev. Mr. Stephen 
Young, of Barr. 

Page 174, Note 236.— Rev. Mr. George 
Smith, of Galston. This gentleman is praised 
as friendly to common sense in the Holy 
Fair. The offence which was taken at that 
praise probably embittered the poet against 
hiin. 

Page 174, Note 237.— Mr. John Shep- 
herd, of Jluirkirk. The statistical account of 
Muirkirk contributed by this gentleman to 
Sir John Sniclair's work, is above the average 
in intelligence, and very agreeably written. 
He had, however, an unfortunate habit of 
saying rude things, which he mistook for wit, 
and thus laid himself open to Burns's satire. 

Page 174, Note 238. — The poor elder, 
William Fisher, whom Burns has so oftea 
scourged. 

Page 175, Notb 239. — Robert Heron, 
who afterwards became a well-known author 
by profession, and died in misery, in London, 
in 1807. 

Page 175, Note 240.— Waited for. 

Page 175, Note 241. — This small piece, 
which was an imitation, was forwarded to 
the Star Newspaper for publication in the 
' month of May, 1789 ; and it was in recom- 
pense for this contribution, that Burns was 
I put on the free list, and supplied with the 
I paper gratuitously, which, however, he re- 
ceived very irregularly. In allusion to the 
very uncertain manner in which the paper 
was delivered to him, he addressed the sub- 
joined hues, ou one occasion, to the pub- 
lisher : — 

Dear Peter, dear Peter, 

We poor sons of metre 
Are often negleckit, ye ken ; 

For iiistanre, your sheet, man. 

Though glad I'm to see't man, 
I get it no aiie day in ten. 

Page 175, Note 242.— "Mrs. Dunlop, 
daughter and heiress of Sir Thomas AVallace, 
of Craigie, and at this time widow of John 
Dunlop, of Uunlop, in Ayrshire, and resident 
at the last mentioned place, became ac- 
quaiutel with Burns on the publication of 
his poems at Kilmarnock, and was ever after 
his steady friend. She was a woman of ex- 
cellent understanding and heart, with a con- 
siderable taste for elegant literature. She 
died iu 1815, at the age of eighty-four. 



49« 



NOTES TO THE 



Page 176, I>jote 243. — Subsequently 
Major General Duiilop, of Dunlop. 

Page 176, Note 244. — Rachel, daugliter 
of Mrs. Dunlop, was engaged upon an 
imaginative sketch of Burns's Muse, Coila. 

Page 177, Note 245. — A mare, the 
property of Mr. William Nicol, and lent by 
that gentleman to Burns, in whose keeping 
it became ill, aad died at his farm, of Ellis- 
land. 

Page 178, Note 246. — This piece was 
published in a newspaper, and from that 
time forward remained uinioticed until it 
was reproduced iu Chambers's Edition of 
Burns's Works. 

Page 178, Note 247 —The parallel be- 
tween these lilies and those of Johnson, as 
follow, cannot escape the reader : — 

In bed we laugh, iu bed we cry. 
And born in bed, in bed we die ; 
The near approach a bed may show. 
Of human bliss and human woe. 

Page 179, Note 248.— At the general 
election, 1790, the representation of the live 
boroughs of Dumfries, Annan, Kirkcud- 
bright, Sanquhnr, and Lochmaben, forming 
one electoral district, was contested by Sir 
James Johnstone, of Westerhall, in the 
ministerial or Tory, and Captain Patrick 
Miller, the younger, of Dalswinton, in the 
Whig or opposition interest. Burns, who was 
friendly to the latter party, here allegorises 
the contest ; characterising Dumfries as 
Maggy on the banks of Nith ; Annan, as 
Bess of Annandale ; Kirkcudbright, as 
Whisky Jean of Galloway; Sanquhar, as Black 
Joan frae Chrichton Peel; and Lochmaben 
as Marjory of the many lochs — appellations, 
all of which have some appropriateness from 
local circumstances. The contest was de- 
cided in favour of Captain Miller. 

Page 179, Note 249.— Sir J. John- 
stone. 

Page 179, Note 2.^0.— Captain Miller. 

Page 179, Note 251. — King George the 
Third. 

Page 179, Note 252. — George, Prince 
of Wales, afterwards Regent, and King 
George the Fourth. 

Page 180, Note 253.— This is a de- 
scription of the contest alluded to in the 
preceding poem. " Drumlanrig," is the in- 
famous fourth Duke of Queeiisberry. "Wes- 
terha," is Sir James Johnstone, the Tory 
candidate. M'Murdo, was the Duke of 
Q,ueensberry's chamberlain at Drnmhmrig — 
a friend of the poet. " Craigdarroch ," is 
Fergusson, of Craigdarroch. " Glenriddel," 
is Captain Biddel, of Glenriddel, another 



friend of the poet. " Staig," was the provost 
of Dumfries; "Welsh," the sheriff of the 
county. 

Page 180, Note 254. — A piece of ord- 
nance, of extraordinary structure and mag- 
nitude, founded in the reign of James IV. of 
Scotland, about the end of the fifteenth 
century, and which is still exhibited, though 
in an infirm state, in Edinburgh castle. 
The diameter of the mouth is twenty inches. 

Page 180, Note 255.— The "Bullers of 
Buchan " is an appellation given to a tre- 
mendous rocky recess on the Aberdeenshire 
coast, near Peterliead— having an opening 
to the sea while the top is open. The sea, 
constantly raging in it, gives it the appear- 
ance of a pot or boiler, and hence the 
name. 

Page 181, Note 256. — The executioner 
of Charles I. of Uugland, who, as was the 
custom, was masked. 

Page 181, Note 257.— John, Earl of 
Dundee. 

Page 181, Note 258.— The illustrious 
Graham, Earl, and afterwards Marquis, of 
Montrose. 

Page 181, Note 259. — Francis Grose, 
author of the Anticjuities of England, Ire- 
land, and Scotland, and of several other pub- 
lications, some of which display considerable 
knowledge of mankind, wit, and humour, 
became acquainted with Burns at Captain 
Riddel's mansion at Friar's Carse, while 
making the necessary inquiries for his 
work on Scottish antiquities, lie was a 
bon-vivant, and had acquired enormous 
personal bulk. Captain Grose died at 
Dublin, of an apopletic fit, Jlay 12, 1791, 
in the fifty-second year of his age. 

Page 181, Note 260. — The extreme 
parish on the southern frontier of Scotland 
is called Kirkmaiden, of which this word 
Maidenkirk is a mere transposition. Kirk- 
maiden parish is in Wigtonsliire. 

Page 182, Note 261. — One of the old 
traditional Scottish ballads entitled ■.Sir John 
Malcolm, furnished Burns with the rhyth- 
mical model of this piece. 

Page 182, Note 202. — This poem came 
through the hands of Rankine of .Adarahill 
to those of a gentleman of Ayr, who gave it 
to the world in the Edinbun/h Marjazine for 
February 1818, with the following original 
superscription : — "To the Right Honourable 
the Earl of Breadalbane, President of the 
Right Honourable and Honourable the 
Highland Society, which met on the 23rd of 
May last, at the Shakspeare, Covent-Garden, 
to concert ways and means to frustrate the 
designs of live hundred Uiglilauders, who. 



POEMS OF BURNS. 



49y 



:is the sciciety were informed by Mr. M , 

uf A s, were so audacious as to attempt 

!iu escape from their lawful lords and 
masters, whose property they were, by 
emigrating from the lands of Mr. jM'Donald, 
of Glengar-y, to the wilds of Canada, in 
search of tnat fantastic thing — Liberty." 

Page 183, Note 263— "As the authen- 
tic prose history of the IV/dstle is curious, I 
shall here give it. In the train of Anne of 
Den iTark, when she came to Scotland with 
our James VI., tliere came over also a 
Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and 
great prowess, and a matchless champion of 
Hacchus. lie had a little ebony whistle, 
whicli, at the commencement of the orgies, 
he laid on the table, and whoever was the 
last able to blow it, every body else being 
disabled by the potency of the bottle, was 
to carry oif the whistle as a trophy of 
victory. The Dane produced credentials of 
his victories, without a single defeat, at the 
courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, 
Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in 
Germany ; and challenged the Scots Bac- 
chanalians to the alternative of trying his 
prowess, or else of acknowledging their in- 
feriority. After many overthrows on the 
part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered 
by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, an- 
cestor of the present worthy baronet of that 
name ; who, after three days' and three 
nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian 
under the table, 

'And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill.' 

Sir Walter, son of Sir Robert before men- 
tioned, afterwards lost the whistle to Walter 
Ruhlel, of Gleiu-iddel, who had married a 
sister of Sir \Valtcr's. On Friday the 16th 
of October 17 'JO, at Friar's-Carse, the 
whistle was once more contended for, as 
related in the ballad, by the present Sir 
Kiibert, of jMaxwelton : Robert Riddel, Esq., 
of (jleuriddel, lineal descendant, and repre- 
sentative of Walter Riddel, who won the 
winstle, and in whose family it had con- 
tinued ; and Alexander Fergussou, Esq., of 
Craigdarroch, likewise descended from the 
great Sir Robert ; which last gentleman 
carried off the hard-won honours of the field." 
— Burns. [The whistle is kept at this 
ila> by the Right Honourable R. C. Fergus- 
son, of Craigdarroch, M.P. for the Stewartry 
of Kirkcudbright — son of the victor.] 

Tie Itheuish I^egends supply us with 
tw.p (.r three analogous stories, iu which 
ce. u.ui cups or tankards figure, and of which 
they commemorate the facts iu their pre- 
Mrvatiuu. 



Page 183, Note 204.— Vide the Carlo 
thura of Ossian. 

Page 183, Note 2G5. — Johnson's Tour 
to the Hebrides. 

Page 184, Note 266.— James, four- 
teenth Earl of Glencairn, and in whose 
younger brother this ancient title became 
extinct in 1796, was a Whig nobleman of 
great generosity of disposition. He died 
unmarried at Falmouth, January 30th, 1791, 
in the forty-second year of his age. Burns, 
who considered liimself greatly indebted to 
Glencairn, put on mourning for his death, 
wrote this beautiful poem to his memory, 
and called a son after him, now Major 
James Glencairn Burns, of the East India 
Company's service. 

P.'VGE 186, Note 267. — Alexander Mon- 
roe, Professor of Anatomy to the University 
of Edinburgh. 

Page 186, Note 263.— The favour 
which formed the burthen of the foregoing 
poetical epistle, was the translation of the 
poet from the fatiguing Excise division of 
EUislaud, to the less laborious one of 
Dumfries, which favour is acknowledged as 
having been obtained, in these lines. 

Page 186, Note 269.— An allusion to 
the decline of the fashion which was so 
prevalent during the last century amongst 
gentlemen, to drink to excess, swear, and 
indulge in other equally delicate amuse- 
ments, and in which the squirearchy so 
eminently shone. It was this fashion which 
had been so severely satirized by Fielding 
in his novels. 

Page 186, Note 270.— The ruins of 
Lincluden church, near Dumfries. 

Page 188, Note 271. — Though found 
among the papers of Burns, in his own 
hand-writing, and printed as his in some 
former editions, the present editor has 
scarcely a doubt that this poem is not by 
the Ayrshire bard. It is much more like 
the composition of Fergussou, or Beattie. 

Page 188, Note 272. — This piece was 
first published in the edition of Burns's 
Works, produced by Messrs Chambers, and 
was contributed by Jlr. James Duncan, of 
Mosesfield, near Glasgow, in whose posses- 
sion is the original manuscript. 

Page 189, Note 273.— WTicn General 
Dumourier, after unparalled victories, left 
the army of the French Republic, April 
1793, and took refuge from the infuriated 
Convention, with the enemies he had lately 
beaten, sonic one expressing joy in ihe 
event where Burns was present, he chanted 
almost extempore the sarcastic stauzos of 
the text. 



/5on 



NOTES TO THE 



P^GE 189, Note 274.— Captain Riddel, 
of Glen riddel, or Mr. Riddel of Woodlee 
park, which is rot very decidly ascer- 
tained. In either case, we are informed that 
the parties were reconciled. 

Page 189, Note 275.— The Maria of 
this lampoon, and that which follows, was 
Mrs. Riddel, of Woodlee park, a lady of 
poetical talent and taste, with whom the 
poet was generally on the best terms, but 
who had temporarily repudiated him from 
lier society, in consequence of an act of 
rudeness committed by him when elevated 
with liquor. She is the lady alluded to by 
Dr. Currie, of whom Burns, amongst his last 
days at Brow, asked if she had any com- 
mands for the other world, and who wrote 
the beautiful paper on his death, which 
first appeared in the Dunifries Journal, and 
was afterwards transferred entire to Currie's 
Memoir. 

Page 190, Note 276. — By ^sopus, is 
meant an actor of the name of William- 
son. 

Page 190, Note 277. — Gillespie. 

Page 190, Note 278.— Colonel Mc 
Dowal, of Logan. 

Page 191, Note 279. — Burns also in- 
scribed the following lines on the windows 
of a grotto in Captain Riddel's grounds : — 

To Riddel, much-lamented man. 

This ivied cot was dear ; 
Reader, dost value matchless worth ? 

This ivied cot revere. 

Page 191, Note 280.— Mrs. Riddel, of 
Woodlee. 

Page 191, Note 281.— These lines 
were written in the fly leaf of a copy of 
Thomson's Select Scottish Blelodies, pre- 
sented to Miss Graham, by Robert Burns. 

Page 192, Note 282.— On the night of 
December the 4th, 1795. 

Page 193, Note 283.— The heroine of 
several of his songs. Her name was Jean 
Lorimer, her father being a farmer at 
Kemeyss-Hall, near Dumfries. Burns seems 
to have formed an acquaintance with her 
during his stay at EUisland, as there is 
still a pane in the eastern room of that 
house, bearing her name, and that of her 
lover John Gillespie, inscribed by her own 
hand, during a visit she paid there. She 
afterwards formed an unfortunate alliance 
with a Mr. Whelpdale, from whom she soon 
separated. At the time when the following 
stanzas were addressed to her, she was living 
in retirement at Dumfries, under depression 
of spirits, the consequence of her recent 
domestic unhappiness. Further information 



respecting this elegant, but unfortunate 
woman, is given elsewhere. 

Page 193, Note 284.— On the death of 
General Stewart, representative of the Stew- 
artry of Kirkcudbright, in January 1795, 
Mr. Heron, of Kerroughtree, a zealous Whig, 
and a friend of Burns, became candidate for 
the vacant seat. He was opposed by Gor- 
don of Balmaghie, but gained his election. 
The third ballad relates to his contest at the 
general election of 1796, with the Hon. 
Montgomery Stewart. He was likewise 
elected on that occasion, but unseated by a 
committee. It is to be remarked, that the 
satirical allusions in these ballads, are almost 
all founded merely in party bitterness, not 
in truth. 

Page 194, Note 285.— John Busby, of 
Tinwold Downs. 

Page 194, Note 286.— Alluding to 
Busby's brother, whose fortune, as it was 
said, was founded before his emigration to 
the East Indies, in some transactions ia 
which the Ayr bank was concerned. 

Page 194, Note 287.— Mr. Maxwell, of 
Cardoness. 

Page 194, Note 288.— Mr. Douglas, of 
Carlingwark, gave the name of Castle 
Douglas to a village which rose in his neigh- 
bourhood, and which has since become a 
considerable and thriving town. 

Page 194, Note 289.- Alluding to Mr. 
John Syme, an intimate friend of Robert 
Burns. 

Page 194, Note 290. — Troggin is a term 
applied, in Scotland to the various wares 
carried about by hawkers, who, in the same 
provincialism, are called tror/gers. 

Page 194, Note 291.— The Earl of 
Galloway. 

Page 194, Note 292.— Mr. Murray of 
Broughton. 

Page 195, Note 293. — One of the can- 
didates in this election — Mr. Gordon of 
Balmaghie. 

P.\ge 194, Note 294. — Alluding somt- 
what severely, to Busby, of Tinwold. 

Page 195, Note 295. — Burns here 
alludes to a brother wit, the Rev. Mr. Mun-- 
head, minister of Urr, in Galloway. The 
hit applied very well, for Muirhead was a 
wind-dried, unhealthy looking little man, 
very proud of his genealogy, and ambitious 
of being acknowledged, on all occasions, as 
the chief of the Muirheads! He was not 
disposed, however, to sit down with the 
affront : on the contrary, he replied to it in 
a virulent diatribe, which may be presented 
as a remarkable specimen of clerical and 
poetical irritability ; and curious, moreover 



POEMS OF BURNS. 



501 



as perhaps the only contemporary satire 
upon Burns of which the world has ever 
heard, except the immortal " trimming 
letter " from a tailor. Dr. Muirhead's jeii 
d'esprit is in the shape of a translation from 
Martial's ode, Ad Vacerram, 

" Vacerras, shahby sou of whore. 

Why do thy patrons keep thee poor? 

Thou art a sycophant and traitor, 

A liar, and calumniator, 

Who conscience (liadst thou that) wouldst 

sell. 
Nay lave the common sewers of hell 
For whisky. Like most precious imp. 
Thou art a r/mu/er, ihymsier, pimp. — 
How comes it then, Vacerras, that 
Thou still art poor as a church rat ?" — 

Chambers. 

Page 195, Note 296. — Burns was a pri- 
vate in the volunteer yoeman corps of 
Dumfries, of which Colonel De Peyster was 
the commanding;' officer. 

Page 195, Note 297. — A monument 
about to be erected by Mr. Heron, of Ker- 
roughtree, in his own grounds. 

Page 195, Note 298. — Alluding to an 
only daughter, who died in the autumn of 

1795, and so far removed from his residence, 
as to render it impossible for him to visit 
her at the last. She died, moreover, very 
suddenly. 

Page 196, Note 299.— The Honourable 
Henry Erskine was elected Dean of the 
Faculty of Advocates in 1786, and unani- 
mously re-elected every year till 1796, when 
it was resolved by some members of the 
Tory party at the Scottish bar to oppose his 
re-election, in consideration of his having 
aided in getting up a petition against the 
passing of the well-known sedition bills, 
Mr. Erskine's appearance at the Circus 
(now the Adelphi Theatre) on that occasion 
was designated by those gentlemen (among 
whom were Charles Hope and David Boyle, 
now respectively Lord President and Lord 
Justice-Clarke) as "agitating the giddy and 
ignorant multitude, and cherishing such 
humours and dispositions as directly tend 
to overturn the laws." They brought for- 
ward Jlr. Kobert Dundas, of Arniston, 
Lord Advocate, in opposition to Mr. 
Ersklne ; and at the election, January 12th, 

1796, the former gained the day by 123 
against 38 votes. The following verses by 
Burns describe the keenness of the contest. 
The mortitication of the displaced dean was 
BO extreme, that he that evening, with a 
coal-axe, hewed off from his door in Prince's 
Street, a brass-plate on which his designa- 



tion as Dean of Faculty was inscribed. It 
is not impossible, that, in characterising 
Mr. Dundas so opprobriously, and we may 
add unjustly, Burns might recollect tiie 
slight -with which his elegiac verses on the 
father of that gentleman had been treated 
eisi'ht years before. 

>age 197, Note 300.— The Duke of 
Queensberry stripped his domains of Drura- 
lanrig, in Dumfries-shire, and Neidpath in 
Peebles-shire, of all the wood fit for being 
cut, in order to enrich the Countess of 
Yarmouth, whom he supposed to be his 
daughter. 

Page 197, Note 301. — Burns was one 
day being rallied by a friend for wasting his 
satirical shafts on persons unworthy of his 
notice, and was reminded that there were 
such persons (distinguished by rank and 
circumstance) as the Duke of Q,ueensberry, 
on whom his biting rhapsodies might more 
advantageously be expended. He immedi- 
ately improvised these lines. 

Page 197, Note 302.— Mr. M'JIurdo 
resided at Drumlanrig, as chamberlain to the 
Duke of Queensberry. He and his wife and 
daughters are alluded to in the election piece, 
entitled Second Epistle to Mr. Graham of 
Fintry. They were kind and hospitable 
friends of Burns, who celebrated several of 
the young ladies in his songs. 

Page 198, Note 303.— "Sir Walter Scott 
possessed a tumbler, on which these lines 
written by Burns on the arrival of a friend, 
Mr. W. Stewart, factor to a gentleman of 
Nithsdale. The landlady being very wrath 
at wiiat she considered the disfigurement of 
her glass, a gentleman present appeased her 
by paying down a shilling, and carried off the 
relic." — LocKHART. 

Page 198, Note 304. — According to 
Burns himself, this song was written when 
he was about seventeen years old, in honour 
of a damsel named Isabella Steven, who 
lived in the neighbourhood of Locnlee. 

Page 198, Note 305.— The old ballad, 
McMillan's Pe;i<pj, was the model of this 
song. The heroine of the piece was a young 
lady educated in a manner somewhat supe- 
rior to the peasantry in general, and on 
whom Burns practised to display his tact in 
captivating, until, by degrees, he fell in love 
in earnest, and then discovered that the object 
of this first sport, then earnest, was previ- 
ously engaged. " It cost me," says he, 
" some heartaches to get rid of the affair." 

Page 198, Note 306.— According to 
Jlr. Cunningham, this was the same person 
as Montgomery's Peyjy. But more accurate 
information identifies the heroine of the piece 



602 



NOTKS TO THE 



us Margaret Alison, of Lochlee, who was 
not engaged, and wlio actually mourned the 
inconstancy of Burns. 

Pace 199, Note 307. — This was the 
same Peggy Alison mentioned in the fore- 
going note. 

Page 199, Note 308.— An adaptation of 
the Old English Ballad, which was rescued 
from oblivion, obscurity, and black letter (in 
the Pepys Library, Cambridge), by ]\Ir. 
Jamieson, who published it in his collection. 

Page 200, Note 309.— Anne Blair, and 
Anne Ronald, daughters of farmers in Tar- 
bolton parish, and the latter of whom became 
Mrs. Paterson, of Aikenbrae, have each been 
spoken of in their native district as the 
heroine of this song. The poet's family 
was intimate with Mr. Ronald's, when resi- 
ding at Loclilee, and even after they had re- 
moved to Mossgiel. ]Mr. Gilbert Burns was 
at one time considered as a wooer of one of 
the Miss Ronald's. We learn from Mr. 
Cunnnigham that Mr. Ronald liked the con- 
versation of the poet very much, and would 
sometimes sit late with him; on which one 
of the girls — probably not Anne — remarked 
that " she could na see ought about Robert 
Burns that would tempt her to sit up wi' 
him till twal o'clock at night." 

Page 200, Note 310. — This song was 
composed in honour of JMargavet Thomson, 
who lived in a cottage adjoining the Village 
School of Kirkoswald, where Burns was 
completing his education, when nineieeu 
years old. Burns himself gives the follow- 
ing account of the matter: — This ^Iiss 
Thomson afterwards married a Mr. Nielson, 
and settled with him in the town of Ayr. 
" A charming fillette," says Burns in speaking 
of her, " who lived next door to the school, 
overset my trigonometry, and sent me otf at 
a tangent from the sphere of my studies. 
I, however, struggled on with my sines and 
cosines for a few days more ; but stepping 
into the garden one charming noon to take 
the sun's altitude, there 1 met my angel, 

• Like Proserpine gathering flowers. 



Herself a fairer flower. 

It was in vain to think of doing any more 
good at school. The remaining week I staid, 
1 did nothing but craze the faculties of my 
soul about her, or steal out to meet her." 

Page 201, Note 311.— "This tune is by 
C) wald; and the words relate to some part 
of my private history, which it is of no con- 
sequence to the world to know." — Burns. 

Page 201, Note 312. — In a memoir of 
Ramsay, in a publication entitled " Lives of 
Kminent Scotsmen" (3 vols. Boys, Loudon), 



there is presented a very early song to the 
tune of My Nannie, O, beginning— 

"As I came in by Enbro' town. 
By the side o' the bonny city, O, 

I heard a young man mak his moan. 
And O! it was a pity, O. 

For aye he cried his Nannie, O! 
His handsome, charming Nannie, O! 
Nor friend nor foe can tell, O — ho. 
How dearly I love Nannie, O ! " 
An improved song to the same air was written 
by Ramsay; and finally. Burns wedded the 
music to the following beautiful effusion of 
natural sentiment, the heroine of which is 
believed to have been a certain Agnes Flem- 
ing, servant at Calcothill, near Lochlee. 

Page 202, Note 313. — "An improve- 
ment upon an ancient homely ditty to the 
same air. It has been pointed out that the 
last admirable verse is formed upon a conceit, 
which was put into print long before the 
days of Burns, and in a place where it is not 
at all probable that he could ever have seen 
it — a comedy entitled Cupid's JV/drligig, pub- 
lished in 1G07. The passage in the comedy 
is an apostrophe to the female sex, as fol- 
lows : — " Since we were made before you, 
should we not admire you as the last, and 
therefore, perfect work of nature. Man was 
made when nature was but an apprentice, 
but woman when she was a skilful mistress 
of her art." — Ciiambeks. 

Page 202, Note 314. — A quotation from 
Young's " Night Thoughts." 

Page 203, Note 313.— The " Highland 
Lassie," celebrated in this song, was the 
Mary Campbell, to v.hom Burns was at one 
time engaged, and devotedly attached, and 
whose premature death, in fact, prevented her 
becoming Mrs. Burns. 

Page 204, Note 316. — "Composed on 
the amiable and excellent family of White- 
foord's leading Ballochmyle, « hen Sir John's 
misfortunes obliged him to sell the estate." — ■ 
Burns. Maria was Miss Whitefoord, after- 
wards Mrs. Cranstone The purchaser of the 
property was Claud Alexander, Esq., whose 
sister Burns has celebrated as the Bonnie 
Lass of Ballochmyle. 

Page 205, Note 317.— The origin of this 
beautiful song was the accidental meeting of 
Miss VVilhelmina Alexander, in the grounds 
attached to the mansion of Ballochmyle, the 
property of her brother Mr. Claude Alexan- 
der. The song was written in 17S6, and 
immediately forwarded by Burns to Miss 
Alexander, whose delicacy kept it unknown 
for the time. 

Page 205, Note 318. — I composed this 



rOE^rS OF T^FRNS. 



003 



song as I conveyed my chest so far on the 
road to Greenock, where I was to embark in 
a few days for Jamaica (November, 17^36). 
[ meant it as a farewell dirge to my native 
land." — Burns. 

Professor Walker gives the foUowinoj ac- 
count relating to tills song. " I requested 
liim (B'lrns) to communicate some of his 
unpubl.iiied poems, and he recited his fare- 
well 3/:ig; to the Banks of Ayr, introducing 
it with a description of the circumstances 
under which it was composed, more striking 
than the poem itself. He had left Ur. Lau- 
rie's family, after a visit which he expected 
to be the last, and on his way home, had to 
cross a wide stretch of solitary moor. His 
mind was strongly affected by partnig for 
ever with a scene where he had tasted so 
much elegant and social pleasure ; and de- 
pressed by the contrasted gloom of his 
prospects, the aspect of nature harmonised 
with his feelings ; it was a lowering and 
heavy evening in the end of autumn. The 
wind was up, and whistled through the 
rushes and long spear grass which bent be- 
fore it. The clouds were driving across the 
sky ; and cold pelting showers at intervals 
added discomfort of body to cheerlessness of 
mind. Under these circumstances, and in 
this traine, Burns composed this poem. 

Pagh 205, Note 319. — This song relates 
to ail incident in real life. The unfortunate 
heroine was a beautiful woman, daughter to 
a landed gentleman of Carrick, and niece to 
a baronet. Her lover was a landed gentle- 
tuan of \\'igtonshire. A mother without the 
sanction of matrimony, and deserted by her 
lover, she died of a broken heart. On the 
subsequent death of her brother, her yonngfr 
sister inherited the family property, but not 
without opposition from an unexpected 
quarter. Tlie seducer and deserter of the 
deceasc-l lady now appeared in a court of 
law, to endeavour > establish the fact of a 
secret marriage with her, so as to entitle him 
to succeed to her brother's esta*?, as the 
father and heir of her deceased child, whose 
claim, of course, would have been preferable 
to that of the younger sister, if his legitimacy 
could have been proved. In this attempt, 
the sp<lucer, it is gratifying to add, was not 
successful. 

The following was the original version of 
the song, written soon after the poet's de- 
parture from Ayrshire, and afterwards altered 
to suit an air composed by a Mr. ililler, 
writer m Kdiubiirgh : — 



Ye flowery banks o' bonuie Uooo, 
IIow can ye L'oom sue fair I 



How can ye chant, ye little birds. 

And I sae fu' o' care ! 
Tlioii'U break my heart, thou bonnie bird. 

That sings upon the bough; 
Thou minds me o' the happy days 

When my fause luve was true. 
Thou'll break my heart, thou bonuie bird. 

That siug5 beside thy mate; 
For sae I sat, and sae 1 sang. 

And wist na o' my fate. 
Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

To see the woodbine twine, 
And ilka bird sang o' its love; 

And sae did i o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Frae aff its thorny tree : 
And my fause liiver staw the rose, 

But left the thoiu wi' me. 

Page 205, Note 330. — "I composed thesj 
stanzas standing under the falls of Aberfelily, 
at or near Moness, in Perthshire" — Bukns. 
This was in the course of his Highland Ex- 
cursion, in the month of September, 17S7. 

Page 205, Note 321. — James .Mac- 
pherson was a noted Highland freebooter, 
of uncommon personal strength, and an ex- 
cellent performer on the violin. After 
holding the counties of Aberdeen, Banff, 
and Aioray in fear for syme years, he was 
seized by Dutf, of Braco, ancestor of the 
Earl of Fife, and tried before the sheriff of 
Banffshire (November 7, 1700), along with 
certain gipsies who had been taken in his 
company. In the prison, while he lay under 
sentence of death, he composed a song, and 
an appropriate air, the former comraeucing 
thus :— 

" I've spent my time in rioting. 

Debauched my health and strength ; 
I squandered fast as pillage came. 
And fell to shame at length. 

But dantonly and wantonly. 

And rantoiily I'll gae ; 
I'll play a tune, and dance it roun'. 
Beneath ilie gallows tree." 

When brought to the place of execution, on 
the Gallow-hill of Banff (Nov. 1(5), he played 
the tune on his violin, and then asked if any 
friend was present who would accept the 
instrument as a gift at his hands. No one 
coming forward, he indignantly broke the 
viohn on his knee, and threw away the frag- 
ments ; after which he submitted to hid 
fate. The traditionary accounts of ISIac- 
pherson's iminciise prowess are justified by 
his sword, which is still preserved in Duff 
House, at Banff, and is an imiileiuent ol 



44 



B01 



NOTES TO THE 



great leriicth and weight — as well as by his 
boacs, wliicli were found a few years ago, 
ami were allowed by all who saw thefti to be 
much stronger than the bonesof ordinarynien. 

Tlie verses of Burns — justly called by 
Jlr. Lockhart, "a grand lyric," — were de- 
signed as an improvement on those of the 
freebooter, preserving the same air. la the 
edition of the poet's works, superintended 
by Messrs. Hogg and Jlotherwell (Glasgow, 
1834), the reader will find ampler information 
on the subject of Macpherson and his " Rant." 

Page 207, Note 322. — The individual 
here meant is William, fourth Viscount of 
Strathttllan, who fell on the insurgent side at 
the battle of Culloden, April, 1746. Burns, 
probably ignorant of this his real fate, de- 
scribes him as having survived the action, 
and taken refuge from the fury of the govern- 
ment forces in a Highland fastness. 

Page 207, Note 323. — These verses 
were composed on a charming girl, a Miss 
Charlotte Hamilton, who was since married to 
James M'Kitrick Adair, Esq., physician. 
She is sister of my worthy friend, Gavin 
Hamilton, of Mauchline, and was born on 
the banks of Ayr, but was, at the time I 
wrote these lines, residing at Ilarvieston, in 
Clackmannanshire, on the romantic banks of 
the little river Devon." — Burns. It was in 
the course of a short tour in company with Dr. 
Adair, August 1787, that the poet saw 
Miss Hamilton, at Ilarvieston. Introducing 
his fellow-traveller to the family, he was the 
means of bringing about an union, from 
which, says Adair, in 1800, " I have derived, 
and expect further to derive, much happiness." 

Page 207, Note 324— " This song," 
says Burns, " I composed on one of the most 
accomplished of women, ;\Iiss Peggy Chal- 
mers (that was), now Mrs. Lewis Hay, of 
Forbes and Co.'s bank, Edinburgh." — 
Burns. Miss Chalmers was first met by 
Burns in a trip through Clackmannanshire, 
in 1787. It was then that he visited Har- 
viestoii in the month of August. 

Page 208, Note 325. — "I composed 
these verses," says Burns, " on Miss Isabella 
McLeoil, of Ramsay, alluding to her feelings 
on the death of her sister, and the still 
more melancholy death (178(5) of her sister's 
husband, the late Earl of Loudon, who shot 
himself out of shee,- heartbreak at some 
mortitications he suffered, owing to the de- 
ranged state of his finances." 

Page 208, Note 326. — "The chorus I 
picked up from an old woman in Dumblane; 
the rest of tlie song is mine." — Burns. It 
is evident that the poet has understood the 
chorus in a Jacobite sense, and written his 



own verses in that strain accordingly. Mr. 
Peter Buchau, has, nevertheless, ascertained 
that the original song related to a love 
attachment between Harry Lumsdale, the 
second son of a Highland gentleman, and 
Miss Jeanie Gordon, daughter to the Laird 
of Knockhespock in Aberdeenshire. The 
lady was married to her cousin, Ilabicliie 
Gordon, a son of the laird of Rhymie ; and 
some time after, her former lover having met 
her, and shaken her hand, her husband drew 
his sword in anger, and lopped off several of 
Lumsdale's fingers — which Highland Harry 
took so much to heart, that he soon after 
died.— See Hogg and Motherwell's edition of 
Burns, II.. 197. 

Page 208, Note 327.— "I composed 
these verses," says Burns, "out of compli- 
ment to a Mrs. Mcliachlan, whose husband 
was an officer in the East Indies." 

P.WE 208, Note 328.— " I composed 
these verses while I staid at Ochtertyre with 
Sir William Murray (father of Sir George 
jMurray, late Secretary for the colonies). The 
I lady, who was also at Ochtertyre at the 
i same time, was the well-known toast, Miss 
I Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose, who was 
called, and very justly, the Flower of 
Stratkmore." — BuBiNS. This visit to Ochter- 
tyre took place in the month of Juue, 
1787. 

Page 209, Note 329.— "This song," 
says Burns, "I composed on IMiss Jenny 
Cruicksliank, only child of my worthy friend 
Mr. William Cruickshank, of the High 
School, Edinburgh." To the same person 
were also addressed the charming lines 
which begin ; — • 

" Beauteous rosebud young and gay," 

and which were written by Burns in the 
fly-leaf of a book presented by him to her. 
This young lady, who was then only twelve 
years old, afterwards became the wife of Mr. 
Henderson, a writer or legal practitioner at 
Jedburgh. Mr. Cruickshank's house was a 
floor at the top of a common stair now 
marked, No. 30, in James's Square, Edin- 
burgh ; the poet for some time lived with 
him, his room being one which has a window 
looking out from the gable of the house 
upon the green behind the General Register 
House. Here Burns lay while confined with 
a bruised limb in the winter of 1787-8. Mr. 
Cruickshank died, March 8, 1795. 

Page 209, Note 330. — In imitation of a. 
song of which that consummate libertine, 
Charles II., was the hero. 

Page 210, Note 331. — "I composed this 
song out of compliment to Miss Ann Master- 



rOENS OF RURNS. 



60.5 



ton, the dauiihter of my ''rienil Allan Master- 
ton, the author of ihj air StratlialUiu's 
r.ament, and two or three others in tliis 
work (Jolinson'sScots Musical IMuseum)." — 
P. u isNS. ]\Iiss JIastcrton afterwards hecame 
Mrs. Derbishire. 

Page 211, Note 332.— "The first half 
stanza of this song is old; the rest mine." — 
Burns. That lialf stanza was probably the 
same with the following, which occurs near 
tlie close of a homely ballad, printed in Hogg 
and Jlotherwell's edition of Burns, as pre- 
served by Mr. Peter Btichan, who further 
comnnniicates that the ballad was composed 
in 1G36, by Alexander Lesley, of Edinburgh, 
on Doveran side, grandfather to the cele- 
brated Archbishop Sharpe : — 

" Ye'll bring me here a pint of wine, 

A salver and a silver tassie, 
That I may drink, before I gang, 

A health to my ain bonnie lassie." 

The fact of Burns pitching upon this one 
fine stanza of an old ballad, as a foundation 
for a new song, shows expressively the apt 
sense he had of all that was beautiful in 
poetry, and how ready his imagination was 
to take wing npon the slightest command. 

Page 21 1, Note 333. — These lines, which 
were found amongst the papers of Mrs. 
McLehose, were evidently addressed to her, 
and allude to the parting scene between the 
p<iet and his Clarinda. " These exquisitely 
artecting stanzas contain the essence of a 
thousand love tales." — Sir Walter Scott. 

Page 211, Note 334.— The tune of this 
song was composed by ]Marshall, who for 
many years served in the capacity of butler 
to the Duke of Gordon, and to whose genius 
we are indebted for some of the most exqui- 
site of Scottish airs. Of the words Burns 
gives the following brief account. "This song 
1 composed out of compliment to iMrs. 
Burns. N.B. — It was the honey-moon." 

Page 212, Note 335. — "This air is 
Oswald's; the song I made out of compliment 
to .Mrs. Burns."— Burns. 

Page 212, Note 33G.— "I composed 
this song," says Burns, " in the course of a 
most cheerless ride through the wild muirs 
which extend between Galloway and Ayr- 
shire." 

Page 213, Note 337. — "This celebrated 
poem was composed by Burns,' in September 
1789, on the anniverssry of the day on which 
he heard of the death of his early love, Mary 
Campbell. According to Mrs. Burns, he 
spent that day, though labouring under cold, 
in the usual work of the harvest, and appa- 
"■ntly in excelleut spirits. But, as the twi- 



light deepened, he appeared to grow 'very 
sad about something,' ami at length wan- 
dered out into the barn-yard, to which his 
wife, in her anxiety, followed hira, entreating 
him in vain to observe that frost had set in, 
and to return to the firesiile. On being agaiu 
ami again requeste<l to do so, he promised 
compliance — but still rem lined where he was, 
striding up and down slonly, and contem- 
plating the sky, which was singularly clear 
and starry. At last Mrs. Burns found him 
stretched on a mass of straw, with his eyes 
fixed on a beautiful planet, 'that shone like 
another moon,' and prevailed on liiui to come 
in. lie immediately, on entering the house, 
called for his desk, and wrote exactly as they 
now stand, with all the ease of one copying 
from memory, these sublime and pathetic 
verses." 

Page 213, Note 33S. — "I composed this 
song out of Compliment to one of the happiest 
and worthiest married couples in the world, 
Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, and his 
lady. At their fireside I have enjoyed more 
pleasant evenings than at all the houses of 
fashionable people in this country put toge- 
ther." — Burns. Friars' Carse, closely adja- 
cent to Ellisland, on the bank of the Nith, 
was the residence of this couple. Mr. Riddel 
died April, 179 1. 

Page 213, Note 339.— "This air is 
IMasterton'.s ; the song mine. The occasion 
of it was this : — ;\Ir. William Nicol, of the 
High School, Edinburtfh, during tlie autumn 
vacation, being at Moffat, honest Allan, wha 
was at that time on a visit to Dalswinton 
and I, went to pay Nicol a visit. We had 
such a joyous meeting, that Mr. Mastertou 
and I .igreed, each in our own way, that we 
should celebrate the business." — Burns 
" This meeting," says Currie, writing in 
1799, "took place at Laggan, a farm pur- 
chased by Mr. Nicol, in Nithsdale, on the 
recommendation of Burns. These three 
honest fellows — all men of uncommon talents 
— are now all under the turf." Masterton 
has elsewhere been described by Burns as 
"one of the worthiest men in the world, and 
a man of real genius." Nicol, who died April 
21, 1797, was a man of coarse nature and 
violent passions. 

Page 214, Note 340. — Composed on 
Miss Jean Jeffrey, daughter of the minister 
of Lochmaben. Burns, spending an evening 
with this gentleman at his manse, was much 
pleased with the young liidy, who did the 
honours of the table ; next morning, at 
breakfast, he presented her with the song. 
She is now Mrs. Renwick, and resides in New 

York. CHAMBElis. 



606 



NOTFS TO THE 



I'.VGK ;ilo, NoTK 341. — This is an adap- 
tation of the English ballad of Sir Robert 
Ay ton, who was secretary to the Queen 
Consort of James I. (of England). The old 
ballad runs thus : — 
"I do confess thou'rt sweet; yet find 

Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets. 
Thy favours are but like the wnid, 

That kisseth every thing it meets ; 
And since thou canst with more than one, 
Thou'rt worthy to be kissed by none. 
The morning rose that untouched stands, 

Arm'd with her briars, how sweetly smells ! 
But plucked and strained through ruder 
hands, 

Ilcr scent no longer with her dwells, 
But scent and beauty both are gone, 
And leaves fall from her one by one. 
Such fate, ere long, will thee betide, 

When thou hast handled been awhile; 
Like sun-flowers to be thrown aside. 

And I shall sigh while some will smile : 
So see thy love for more than one 
Ha»; brought thee to be loved by none." 

Page 217, Note 343 — This song is sup- 
posed to be one of those which Burns only 
improved from old versions. William Gor- 
don, sixth Viscount Kenmure, raised a 
body of troops for the Pretender in 1713, 
and had the chief command of the insurgent 
forces, in the south of Scotland. Taken at 
Preston, he was tried, and condemned to be 
beheaded, which sentence was executed on 
the 24th February, 1716. His forfeited 
estate was bonght hack by his widow, and 
transmitted to their son. By the son of 
that son — now Viscount Kenmure, in 
consequence of the restoration of the title — 
Burns was, on one occasion, entertained at 
his romantic seat of Kenmure Castle, near 
New Galloway. 

Page 218, Note 343.— "The original 
title of this song was ' Fair Rabina : ' the 
heroine was a young lady to whom one of 
the poet's friends was attached, and Burns 
wrote it in compliment to his passion. 
Johnson, the proprietor of the Aluseum, 
disliked the name, and desiring to have one 
more suitable for singing, the poet, unwill- 
ingly, changed it to Eliza." — C u n n i n g h a m. 

Page 218, Note 344. — Mr. Cunningham 
states that the heroine of this song was 
the wife of a farmer near Ellislaud, and 
gives the following amusing account of 
her: — "She was a very singular woman: 
tea, she said, would be the rnin of the nation ; 
sugar was a sore evil ; wheaten bread was 
only fit for babes ; earthenware was a pick- 
pocket ; wooden floors were but tit for 



thrashing upon; slated roofs, cold ; feathery 
good enough for fowls ; in short, she ab- 
horred change ; and w henever anything 
new appeared, such as harrows with iron 
teeth, ' Ay, ay,' she would exclaim, ' ye'U see 
the upshot ! ' 

Of all modern things, she disliked china 
the most ; she called it ' burnt clay,' and 
said it was only fit for ' handing the broo o' 
stinking weeds,' as she called tea. On one 
occasion, a southern dealer in cups and 
saucers, asked so much for his ware, that he 
exasperated a peasant, who said, ' I canna 
purchase, but I ken ane that will : gang 
there,' said he, pointing to the house of 
Willie's wife ; dinna be blate or burd- 
mouthed ; ask a guJe penny — she has the 
siller.' Away went the poor dealer, spread 
out his wares before her, and summed up all 
by asking a double price. A blow from her 
crummock was his instant reward, which 
not only fell on his person, but damaged his 
china. 'I'll learn ye,' quoth she, as she 
heard the saucers Jingle, ' to come with yere 
brazent English face and yere bits o' burnt 
clay to me ! ' She was an unlovely dame — 
her daughters, however, were beautiful." 

Page 219, Note 345. — "Looking over, 
with a musical friend, M'Donald's Collection 
of Highland Airs, I was struck with one, an 
Isle of Skye tune, entitled Uraii an Aoirj, or 
the Song of Death, to the measure of which 
I have adapted my stanzas" — Burns to 
Mrs. Dunlop, December 17, 1791, at which 
time the song had just been finished. 

Page 219, Note 346. — Composed in 
honour of Mrs Stewart of Stair, whose pa- 
ternal property was situated on the banks uf 
the Afton, an Ayrshire tributary of the Nith, 
near New Cuiuiioclc Mrs. Stewart was one 
of the first persons of rank vvho knew or ex- 
tended any friendship to Burns. 

Page 220, Note 347.— In the edition of 
the Poems of Burns published by Hogg and 
Motherwell, there is a curious note attached 
to this song, in which all the parallel songs, 
ballads, or sketches of otlier authors areciteil, 
as, in fact, they had, many of them, occurred 
to Burns. 

Page 220, Note 34S. — This song was 
handed up to the chairman, extemporised on 
the back of a letter, by Burns, at a meeting 
of Excise officers, at Dumfries, when the 
poet was called upon for a song. 

Page 221, Note 319. — According tc 
jMr. Cunuinghara, the heroine of this song, 
was Jliss Jannetle Miller, daughter of Mr. 
Miller, of Dalswinton, a young lady of very 
extraordinary beauty, who, subsequently, 
married (in 1795) Mr. John Thomas Erskiiu 



POEMS OF BURNS. 



fio: 



the younger, of Marr (since 13th Earl of 
Marr). 

Page 221, Note 350. — This song is sup- 
posed to express the love and admiration of 
Mr Oswald, of Auchiiicriiive, for Miss Lucy 
Jolmstone — afterwards Mrs. Oswald, and who 
died of decline, at Lisbon, in 179S. 

Page222, Notb 351. — This song, whether 
sbsolutely original, or remodelled from 
some ancient ballad, was contributed by 
Burns to Johnson's Musical Museum. Mr. 
Cunningham pronounces it not original. I 
cannot, however, trace any ballad, either 
amongst the early English, or early Scottish 
Poesy, which will sustain Mr. Cunningham's 
judgment; and, moreover, there are sufficient 
grounds for identifying its absolute origi- 
nality, the rhythm only being adopted. 

Page 224, Note 352. — "The occasion of 
this ballad was as follows : — When Mr. 
Cunuinghame, of Enterkin, came to his 
e.-^tate, two mansion-bouses on it, Enterkin 
and Anbank, were both in a ruinous state. 
Wishing to introduce himself with some 
iclat to the county, he got temporary erec- 
tions made on the banks of Ayr, tastefully 
decorated with shrubs and flowers, for a sup- 
per and ball, to which, most of the respectable 
families in the county were invited. It was 
a novelty, and attracted much notice. A 
dissolution of parliament was soon expected, 
and this festivity was thought to be an 
introduction to a canvass for representing 
the county. Several other candidates were 
spoken of, particularly Sir John Whitefoord, 
then residing at Cloncaird, commonly pro- 
nounced Glencaird, and IMr. Boswell, the 
well-kunwn biographer of Dr. Johnson. 
The political views of this festive assemblage, 
which are alluded to in the ballad, if they 
ever existed, were, however, laid aside, as 
Mr. Cunuinghame did not canvass the 
county." — Gilbert Burns. 

Page 225, Note 353. — There is an old 
superstition, that, out of the slough of 
adders, are formed the pretty annular peb- 
bles, which have, of late years, become so 
popular, when polished, for mounting as 
jewels. 

Page 225, Note 354. — .\ccording to 
the family tradition, this song was composed 
in hono\ir of Mrs. Riddel of Woodlee Park. 

Page 22(3, Note 355. — Miss Lesley Hail- 
lie was certainly worthy of the delicate and 
naif eulogy of this poem. She was the 
daughter of a landed proprietor in Ayrshire, 
and, subsequently, married J\lr. Gumming, of 
Logie. The occasion of the meeting, which 
furnished the impulse to this composition, 
was that ou which, iu 1792, Mr. and Miss 

44* 



Baillie were passing thro'.igh Dumfries in 
their progress to England : — Burns accom- 
panied them for some distance on their 
jinirney, and was thus evidently charmed 
with the worth as well as the beauty of his 
fair fellow-traveller. 

Page 226, Note 356. — "In my very 
early years," says Burns, "when I was 
thinking of going to the West Indies, I took 
this farewell of a dear girl (.Mary Campbell), 
whom, although 1 did not leave the country, 
I never saw aLCain." 

Page 227, Note 357. — The castle here 
alluded to was that of Coilsfield, near Tar- 
bolton, the seat of Colonel Hush Mont- 
gomery, who was ultimately twelfth Earl of 
Eglinton. The heroine of the verses was 
jNlary Campbell, who lived in that house as 
a dairy-woman, but now resides with poetical 
immortality. Burns, after a long court- 
ship, and having agreed that they should be 
married, met her on the banks of the Ayr, 
to live one day of parting love, in anticipa- 
tion of a visit she was to pay to her re- 
lations at Campbeltown in Argyleshire. 
Mary died at Greenock on her return, and 
thus left a blank in the poet's affections 
which nothing thereafter tilled up. 

Page 223, Note 358. — This song, which 
is the version contributed to Thomson's 
Selection, and which elicited such merited 
admiration from that elegant compiler, was 
a rescript of a former song contributed by 
Burns to Johnson's Musical Museum. The 
latter, however, was not absolutely original, 
being founded on an old ballad, whereas 
this version is entirely original. The ver- 
sion furnished to the Musical .Museum rung 
as follows : — 

Braw, braw lads of Gala Water ; 

Oh, braw lads of Gala Water; 
I'll kilt my coats aboou my knee. 

And follow my love thro' the water. 

Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow, 
Sae bounie blue her een, my dearie; 

Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou*; 
The mair I kiss sh'es aye my dearie. 

O'er yon bank, and e'er yon brae, 
O'er yon moss amang the heather; 

I'll ki'f my coats aboon my knee. 
And follow my love thro' the water. 

Down amang the broiin, the broom, 
Down amang the broom, my dearie. 

The lassie lost her silken snood. 

That cost her raony a blirt and blearia 

Page 2-'8,Note359.— "This,"says Burns, 
" was one of my juvenile works." These 



608 



NOTES TO THE 



lilies were composed in honour of one of the 
fair daughters of a neighbour's house at 
Mauchline. " Of all the productions of 
llurns, the pathetic and serious love sonjfs 
which he has left behind liiin in the niaiiner 
of old ballads, are perhaps those which take 
deepest and most lastins: hold of the mind. 
Such are the lines to JIary Morison, &c." 
— IIazlitt. 

Page 229, Note 360.— "Burns, I have 
been informed, was one summer eveninif at 
the inn at Brownliill with a couple of 
friends, w hen a poor wayworn soldier passed 
tlie window ; of a sudden, it struck the 
poet to call him in, and get the story of his 
adventures ; after listening to wliich, he all 
at once fell into one of those fits of abstrac- 
tion not unusual with him. He was lifted to 
the region where he had his 'garland and 
singing robes about him,' and the result 
was the admirable song which he sent j'ou 
for 'the Mill, IMill O.' " — Coukespond- 
EMCE OP Mr. George Thomson. IMill- 
Mannoch, a sweet pastoral scene on the 
Coyl, near Coyltou Kirk, is presumed to 
have been the spot w'liere the poet imagined 
the rencontre of the soldier and his mistress 
to have taken place. 

Page 230, Note 361.— "The air of Logan 
Braes is old, and there are several old songs 
to it. Immediately before the rise of Barns, 
Mr. John Mayne, who afterwards became 
known for a poem entitled the Siller Gun, 
wrote a very agreeable song to the air, 
beginning, 

'By Logan's streams, that rin sae deep.' 

It was published in the Star newspaper. 
May 23rd, 1780. Burns, having heard that 
song, and supposing it to be an old com- 
position, adopted into the above a couplet 
from it, winch he admired :— 

'While my dear lad inauu face his faes. 
Far, far frae me and liOgan braes.' 

Mr. Mayne lived to a good old age, and 
died, March 14th, 1836, at lisson Grove, 
near London." — Thom.son. 

Page 230, Note 362. — ^This song was 
written expressly for Mr. Thomson's Collec- 
tion, that is, the two last stanzas, for the 
two first were the original words of an old 
ballad. Burns was struck with the wild 
beauty of the air, and with the imperfection 
of the closing part of the verses, and sup- 
plied a remodelled version, such as it is in 
the text. 

Page 230, Note 363.— This song has 
been erroneously supposed to celelrate 
Burns's own " Jeau." .It was really written 



in honour of the eldest daughter of Mr, 
John McMurdo, of Drumlanrig — Miss Jean 
McMurdo, whose exquisite beauty of face 
and symmetry of figure, were remarkable 
even in a family uniformly handsome. 

Page 232, Note 36 L — " You will re- 
member an unfortunate part of our worthy 
fiieiid Cuuningham's story, which happened 
about three years ago. That struck my 
fancy, and I endeavoured to do the idea 
justice as follows." — BuitNS TO G. Thom- 
son, Au(/ust, 1793. j\Ir. Alexander Cun- 
ningham was a jeweller in Edinburgh, a 
man of polished and agreeable manners, and 
admitted into a class of society considerably 
above his own. The story of his unfaithful 
mistress, wdiich is here alluded to, made a 
great noise at the time, and has been kept 
in remembrance by Burns's song. 

Page 232, Note 365.— Phillis the Fair 
— ]Miss Phillis McMurdo, daughter of Mr. 
John Mc^Iurdo, of Drumlanrig, more 
delicately lovely, though not so command- 
ingly beautiful as her elder sister Jean. 
She was subsequently married to Mr. 
Norman Lockhart, of Carnwath. The 
occasion of this song was the fancied passion 
of her music master (Burns's friend) Stephen 
Clarke, who requested the poet to supply 
him with an adequate copy of verses to 
celebrate her. 

Page 232, Note 366.— Benleddi is a 
mountain which rises to an elevation of 
upwards of 3000 feet, and which is situated 
to the westward of Strathallan. 

Page 233, Note 367.— An improve- 
ment upon an old song, the hero of which is 
said to have been the Rev. David William- 
son, Minister of St. Cuthbert's, Edinburgh, 
famous for having had seven wives, the first 
being the Laird of Cherrytree's daughter, 
with whom he became acquainted in a 
rather unceremonious manner when skulking 
during the days of " the Persecution." This 
remarkable patriarch, though first inducted 
into liis charge in the time of the Common- 
wealth, was a vigorous preacher down to tha 
davs of Queen Anne. 

Page 233, Note 363— "The old air, 
'Hey, tuttie taitie,' with Eraser's hautboy, 
has often filled my eyes with tears. There 
is a tradition, which I have met with in 
many places of Scotland, that it was Robert 
i Bruce's march at the battle of Bannockburn. 
This thought in my solitary wanderings, 
warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the 
theme of liberty and independence, which I 
threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to 
the air, that one might suppose to be the 
gallant Royal Scot's address to his heroic 



POEilS OF BURNS. 



509 



followers on that eventful morninj;." — 
Burns to G. Thomson, September 1792. 

Page 233, Note 309.— According to 
some of Biirns's coraineutators, this sonjf 
was written in 1793, ou the occasion of Cla- 
rinda's purposed departure to join her hus- 
band in the West Indies. Tiiis is a mistake. 
The words might, very possibly, liave been 
suffr/esled by such a circumstance ; but the 
song was written in 1794 for Thomson's 
collection. Burns having previously sug- 
gested the air of Oran Gaoil to his cur- 
respondent, and expressed his admiration 
of it. 

Page 236, Note 370. — '"How long and 
dreary is the night ! ' I met with some 
such words in a collection of songs some- 
where, which I altered and enlarged : and to 
please you, and to suit your favourite air, I 
have taken a stride or two across my room, 
and have arranged it anew, as you will tind 
on the other page." — Burns to G. Thom- 
son, October, 1794. 

Page 237, Note 371.— This song was 
composed in honour of the beautiful Miss 
Jean Loriraer, afterwards !Mrs. Whelpdale. 
The occasion of the composition was imme- 
diately on reaching home, after having met 
Miss Loriraer at a party • the date 1794. 

Page 237, Note 372. — The title of this 
song is of remote date in the English version, 
and even the opening hues have been re- 
tained. The air, liowever, had never before 
been coupled with it, and the length of the 
stanzas was cut down, and the song otlier- 
wise remodelled by Burns for Thomson's 
collection, in which it was coupled with 
Burns's favourite tune of Dainty Daoie. 

Page 239, Note 273. — The supposition 
that this song was elicited as a kind of peni- 
tential address to Mrs. Riddel, of AVoodlee 
park, ill consequence of an affront offered to 
her by the poet when into.xicated, is by no 
means well founded. The purport of the 
song in no way concerned Burns personally, 
it was written for a friend as an apostrophe 
to an offended mistress, and the reply was 
also by the hand of Burns, who was thus 
employed on both sides in the dispute. The 
reply runs thus :— 

" Stay, my Willie — yet believe me. 
Stay, my AVillie — yet believe me. 
For, ah ! thou know'st na' every pang. 
Wad wring my bosom shouldsc thou 
leave me. 
Tell me that thou yet art true. 

And a' my wrongs shall be forgiven. 
And when this heart proves fause to thee. 
Yon sun shall cease its course in heaven. 



But to think I was betrayed, [sunder ! 

That falsehood e'er our loves should 
To take the flow'ret to my breast. 

And find the guilefu' serpent under. 

Conlil I hope thou'dst ne'er deceive. 

Celestial pleasures, might I choose 'em, 
I'd slight, nor sec-k in other spheres 
That lieaven I'd find within my bosom. 
Stay my Willie — yet believe me. 
Stay, my Willie — yet believe me. 
For, ah I thou knows't na' every pang 
Wad wring my bosom shouldst thou 
leave me." 

Page 239. Note 374.— The following 
passage, which conveys a very analogous 
iik'rt, occurs in Wycherley's Comedy of The 
Plain Dealer : — 

" I weigh the man, not his title : 'tis not 
the king's stamp can make the metal better 
or heavier. Your lord is a leaden shilling, 
which you bend every way, and who debases 
the stamp he bears." 

Page 240, Note 375. — "Composed on a 
passion which a Mr. Gillespie, a particular 
friend of mine, had for a Miss Lorimer, 
afterwards Mrs. Whelpdale. The young lady 
was born at Cragieburn AVood " (near 
Moffat). — Burns. Mrs. Whelpdale at a 
future date became the heroine Chloris, 
under which appellation she is the subject of 
many songs by Burns. It is painful to add, 
that this beautiful woman eventually sank 
into the lowest state of female degradation, 
and died in misery at Mauchline a few years 
ago. — Chambers. 

Page 240, Note 37G. — "Craigieburn 
AVood is situated on the banks of the river 
Moffat, and about three miles distant from 
the village of that name, celebrated for its 
medicinal waters. The woods of Cragieburn 
and of Dumcrieff, were at one time favourite 
haunts of our poet. It was there he met 
the ' Lassie wi' the lint-white locks,' and that 
he conceived several of his beautiful lyrics." 

— CURRIE. 

Page 241, Note 377. — This song was 
composed on the same occasion, and sug- 
gested by the same incident, as that to which 
the song. Had I a Cave, is also attribu- 
table, namely, a disappointment in lo>e 
which befel Mr. Alexander Cunningham, the 
mutual friend of Burns and Thomson. The 
date of this song is 1795. 

Page 242, Note 378. — In the original 
manuscript this line runs, " He up the 
Gnleslack to my black cousin Bess." Mr. 
Thomson objected to this word, as well as to 
the word Daljurnack, in the next verae, 
Robert Burns replied as follows ; — 



510 



NOTES TO THE 



" Gatcilnck is the name of a particular 
place, a kind of passaffe up among the 
I,a\vther hills, on the confines of this county. 
Dalicarnock is also the name of a romantic 
spot near the Nith, where are still a ruined 
church and a burial-ground. However, let 
the first run He up the king loan, &c." 

" It is always a pity to throw out anything 
that gives locality to our poet's verses." — 

CUIIRIE. 

Pare 243, Note 379.— The heroine of 
this song was Mrs. Burus's endeared young 
friend. Miss Jessy Lewars, sister to one of 
Burns's associates in oftice — since wile of 
Mr. James Thomson, writer, Dumfries. 

Pack 241, Note 380.— This was the first 
attempt of Burns in verse. It was com- 
posed, according to his own account, in his 
sixteci.ili year, on a " bonnie sweet sonsie 
lass," who was his companion on the harvest 
field. See his letter to Dr. Moore. lie 
says elsewhere — " For my own part, I never 
had the least inclination of turning poet, till 
I once got heartily iu love, and then rhyme 
and song were in a manner the spontaneous 
language of my heart. This composition 
was the first of my performances, and done 
ac an early period of life, when my heart 
glowed with honest warm simplicity, un- 
acquainted and uncorrupted with the ways 
of a wicked world. The performance is, 
indeed, Tery puerile and silly ; but I am 
always pleased with it, as it recalls to my 
mind those happy days when my heart was 
yet honest, and my tongue was sincere." 

Page 244, Note 381.— This autobio- 
graphical song, as it may be called, is under- 
stood to have been composed during the 
most depressed period of the poet's early 
fortunes, when struggling with family dis- 
tresses at Lochlee. " It is a wild rhapsody," 
he says, " miserably deficient in versification ; 
but as tlw sentiments are the genuine 
feelings of my heart, I have a particular 
pleasure in conning it over." — Chambers. 

Page 245, Note 382. — It has been said 
that there was some foundation in fact for 
this tale of a gossip — a wayfaring woman, 
who chanced to be present at tlie poet's 
birth, having actually announced some such 
prophecies respecting the infant placed in 
her arms. Some similar circumstances at- 
tended the birth of IMirabeau. 

Page 245, Note 383. — It may be grati- 
fying to curiosity to know the fates of the 
six belles of Mauchline. Miss Helen Miller, 
the first mentioned, became the wife of 
Burns's friend. Dr. Mackenzie. The divine 
Miss Markland was married to a Mr. Finlay, 
an officer of Excise at Greenock. Jliss Jean 



Smith was afterwards Mrs. Candlisli. Miss 
Betty (Miller) became Mr.s. Terapleton, and 
Miss Morton married a Mr. Paterson. Of 
Armour's history immortality has taken 
charge. 

The Glasrjow Herald of Saturday, Septem- 
ber 6th, 1851, has the following notice of the 
death of the last of the Mauchline Belles, 
" Died on Saturday, the 30th ult. (August 
1851), Mrs.Findlay, relict of Robert Findlay, 
Esq., of the Excise. In ord nary circum- 
stances, the departure from this life of a 
respectable lady, ripe in years, would not 
have afforded matter of general interest ; but 
it happens that the deceased was one of the 
very few persons surviving to our own times, 
who intimately knew the peasant bard in the 
first flush of his genius and manhood, and by 
whom her name and charms have been wedded 
to immortal verse. She was the "divine" 
Miss Markland, noticed in the " Belles of 
Mauchline." Miss Markland became the 
wife of Mr. Findlay, officer of Excise, of Tar- 
bolton, a gentlemen who was appointed to 
instruct the bard in the mysteries of gauging. 
The connection thus formed between Burns 
and Findlay, led to the introduction of the 
latter to Miss Markland, and his subsequent 
marriage to her in September of the same 
year (1788). Mrs. Findlay was in her 23rd 
year at the time of her marriage, and in her 
86 th at the time of her death." 

Page 245, Note 384. — Jean Armour, 
afterwards ]Mrs. Robert Burns who, as is 
well known, survived the poet. 

Page 245, Note 385.— This little frag- 
ment was composed in consequence of a mo- 
mentary glimpse which the poet one day 
obtained of a beautiful young female, who 
rode up to an inn at Ayr, as the poet was 
mounting his horse to leave it. 

Page 216, Note 333.— A7«i>, a familiar 
appellation amongst the country people for 
Kilmarnock. This song was composed in 
allusion to a meeting of the Kilmarnock 
Mason Lodge, which took place iu 1786, and 
at which William Parker, one of the poet's 
oldest friends presided, and which liurns 
himself attended. The song was an im- 
promptu, and was sung, as it is believed, at 
this very meeting. 

Page 246, Note 387 {misprinted 386).— 
The air of Bonnie Dundee appears in the 
Skene MS., of date circa 1620. The tune 
seems to have existed at even an earlier 
period, as there is a song to it amongst those 
which were written by the English, to dis- 
parage the Scottish followers by whom 
James VI. was attended on his arrival in the 
south. Tlie first of the following verses ii 



l'nE\rS OF BURNS. 



511 



rrnm hti old homely ditty, the second only 
being the composition of Burns. 

Page 249, Note 388.— "This song is 
said to be a homely version of a Highland 
lament for tlie ruin which followed the re- 
belliou of the "forty-five." Burns heard it 
sung in one of his northern excursions, and 
begged a transcription." — Cunningham. 
' Page 251, Note 389.— Written at the 
commencement of his residence at Eliisland, 
to express the buoyant feelings which ani- 
mated him on that occasion, when, as he 
himself informs us, he enjoyed a few days, 
the most tranquil, if not the happiest, he h.id 
ever experienced. 

■ Page 255, Note 390. — This ballad is, as 

,., well as some of those which have preceded it, 
dedicated to the turmoil of the parliamentary 
election at Dumfries, iu wliich Burns took as 
active a part as he well could on the tory side: 
— to wit, in the election of 1790. In the "Five, 
Carlines," as well as in the " Second Epistle 
to Mr. Graham of Fintry ; " the poet appeared 
to reserve a neutral position, merely sketch- 
ing the wents as they occurred ; and, in fact, 
it was obvious, seeing his dependency upon a 
government situation, that he should observe 
some measure in his political writings. Burns's 
genius had moreover acquired for him friends 
amongst men of all parties, many of whom in 
the heat of a political contest, might have 
felt aggrieved at any uncalled for violence on 
his part. The secret Jacobitish yearnings of 
Burns natcirally impelled him to the side of 
Sir James Johnstone, thetory and Pittitecandi- 
date, whilst being the tenant of Mr. Miller, 
father of the whig or opposition candidate, to 
whom he was indebted for much personal 
kindness, he could not well signalise himself 
by any very decided exertion against Mr. 
Miller the younger. In this ballad " the 
Laddies of the Banks of Nith," he does not 
retain such very decided neutrality, and 
pretty clearly allows his tory preddections to 
oose out. It must be noticed, however, that 
the toryism of Burns was merely a tradition- 
ary love for the native Scotch race of princes, 
and a detestation for the usurping dynasty 
(as he thought) of Brunswick ; for in abstract 
political principles, it may easily be gathered 
from his writings that he had a far greater 
leaning towards Jacobinism, than towards the 
expliidod principle of the divine right of kings. 
Sir Waiter Scott, writing to Mr. Lockhart, 
with an enclosure of a whole parcel of letters 
of Burns says: — "In one of them to that 
singular old curmudgeon, Ijady Winifred 
Constable, you will see he plays high Jaco- 
bite, and on that account it is curious ; though 
t- fancy his Jacobitism. like mine, belonged to 



the fancy, rather than to the reason, lie 
was, however, a great Pittite down to a cer- 
tain period, that is, until the influx of Jatvjfti- 
iiism from the outbreak of 1789, when lie 
certainly became more decidedly Jacoiiii than 
Jarabite. There were some passing stupid 
verses in the papers, attacking and defending 
his satire on a certain preagjier whom he 
termed an unco calf. In one of them occurred 
these lines in vituperation of the adversary •— 

A whig I guess ; but Rab's a tory. 
And gies us mony a funny story. 

This was in 1787." 

In the "Jjaddies of the banks of Nith,* 
Burns first alludes to the great influence o/ 
the Duke of Queensberry, owing to his 
extensive landed possessions in the neigh- 
bourhood. —The Duke of Queensberry tiguies 
in no enviable light, either politically or 
privately. — A life spent in mere selfish grati- 
fication and profligacy, and a political career 
stamped with his protest of December 26th, 
1788, on the Regency question, are very 
concisely lashed. 

Page 256, Note 391.— Captain Grose 
himself, was the first and most earnest to 
relish the point of this epigram It was an 
impromptu of one of the drinking parties or 
nightly carousals of these "guid fellows." 

Page 256, Note 392.— An allusion to 
the excessive corpulency of Captain Grose, 
which was a commoa subject of joke with 
himself. 

Page 256, Note 393.—" Stopping at a 
merchant's shop, a friend of mine, in Kiliu- 
burgh, one day put Elphinstone's translation 
of Martial into my hand, and desired my 
opinion of it. I asked permission to write 
my opinion in a blank leaf of the biok, 
which, being granted, I wrote this epigram." 
— Burns. A similar idea occurs in a mock- 
heroic poem, entitled the Knight, by 
William Meston, who, in allusion to Dr. J. 
Trapp's translation of the Georgics of Virgil, 
says : — 

" Read the commandment, Trapp, projced 

no further ; 
For there 'tis written, thou shalt do no 

murder." 

Page 256, Note 394.— The Miss Burns 
who was the subject of these lines, was a 
young English woman, settled in Edinburgh 
— as remarkable for the laxity of her de- 
meanour, as for the exquisite beauty of her 
person. She figured in the less rigid society 
of some of our wits, and her portrait waa 
engraved and published by Mr. John Kay. 
It was on one of these engravings that 



'512 



NOTES TO THE POEMS OF BURNS. 



Burns wrote the lines which it sug- 
gested. 

Page 257, Note 395.— These lines were 
in reply to a question put to the poet : 
" Wherefore Miss Davies (a particular fa- 
vourite of Burns's) should have been made 
so duninutive, and another lady named, so 
larg'e in proportion ? " 

Page 257, Note 396. — The occasion 
which suggested these lines, was the receipt 
of intelligence that the Austrians had been 
totally routed at Gemappes, by General 
Duniourier (1792.) 

Page 257, Note 397. — Burns, accompa- 
nied by a friend, having gone to Inverary at 
a time when some company were there on a 
visit to his Grace the Duke of Argyle, finding 
himself and his companion entirely neglected 
by the innkeeper, whose whole attention 
seemed to be occupied with the visitors of 
his grace, expressed his disapprobation of 
the incivility with which he was treated, in 
the above lines. 

Page 257, Note 393. — Composed and 
repeated by Burns, to the master of the 
house, on taking leave at a place in the 
Highlands, where he had been hospitably 
entertained. 

Page 257, Note 399.— Spoken, in reply 
to a gentleman, who sneered at the sufferings 
of Scotland for conscience-saKC, and called 
the Solemn League and Covenant ridiculous 
and fanatical. 

Page 258, Note 400. — These were a 
society of friends of the government, who 
assumed an exclusive loyalty during the 
fervours of the French Revolution. The 
above lines were written in consequence of 
the receipt, at a convivial meeting, of the 
following senseless quatrain from one of the 
Loyal Natives — 

" Ye sons of sedition, give ear to my song. 
Let Syrae, Burns, and Maxwell, pervade 

every throng, 
With Craken the attorney, and Mundell the 

quack. 
Send Willie the monger to hell with a 

smack." 

Page 258, Note 401. — 'Wlien the Board 
of Excise informed Burns that his business 
was to act, and not to think and speak, he 
read the order to a friend, turned the paper, 
and wrote what he called The Creed of 
Pcoerty — Cunningham. 



I Page 258, Note 402. — " These lines are 
addressed to John Taylor, blacksmith, at 
Wanlockhead, on being indebted to him, 
one winter's day between Dumfries-shire and 
Ayrshire, for a small cast of his office."^ 
Burns. 

Page 259, Note 403. — Burns was called 
upon for a song at a dinner of the Dumfries 
Volunteers, in honour of Rodney's victory 
of the 12th of April, 1782. He replied to 
the call by pronouncing the following. 

Page 259, Note 404. — This was at the 
King's Arms Inn, Dumfries, and was sugges- 
ted by hearing some person speak in terms 
of reproach of the officers of his Majesty's 
Excise. 

Page 259, Note 405.— This lady, in her 
early days, was an intimate friend of Mrs. 
Burns, and also a great favourite with the 
poet, who esteemed her sprightly and aft'ec- 
tiouate character. During his last illness, 
his surgeon, Mr. Brown, brought in a long 
sheet, containing the particulars of a me- 
nagerie of wild beasts wiiich he had just been 
visiting. As Mr Brown was handing the 
sheet to Miss Lewars, Burns seized ii, and 
wrote upon it these verses with red chalk; 
after which he handed it to JMiss Lewars, 
saying that it was now lit to be jiresented 
to a lady. Miss Le.vars afterwards married 
Mr. James Thomson, of Dumfries. 

Page 259, Note 406.— While Miss 
Lewars was waiting upon him in his sick 
chamber, the poet took up a crystal goblet 
containing wine and water, and after writing 
upon it these verses, in the character of a 
Toast, presented it to her. 

Page 259, Note 407. — At this time of 
trouble, on Miss Lewars complaining of 
indisposition, he said, to provide for the 
worst, he would write her epitaph. He 
accordingly inscribed these lines on another 
goblet, saying, " That will be a companion 
to the Toast." 

Page 260, Note 408. — Quotation from 
Goldsmith. 

Page 260, Note 409. — James Humphry. 

Page 260, Note 410.— Mr. John Wilson, 
printer, of Kilmarnock, by whom the first 
edition of Burns's Poems was produced. 

Page 261, Note ill.— {Misprinted 409). 
The father of Dr. Richardson, who accom- 
panied Franklin's expedition. — Cham 
BE as. 



Mnlm tn tjje Cnrrespntenre af 3^mm. 



Page 268, Note 1. — ]\Ir. James Burness, of 
Montrose, stood iu the relationslnp of first 
cousia to Robert Burns. The father of 
James was, like his brother William, in 
humble circumstances, but had pursued a 
more prosperous career. We have already 
had occasion to remark that the poet was 
the first of his famil}' to abbreviate the 
name of Burness to Burns. The grandson 
of James Burness, of Montrose, was the 
Lieutenant Burness of our own time, the 
author of Traoeh in Bokhara. 

Page 270, Note 2. — JNIr. John Rich- 
mond was one of the earhest friends of 
Burns at Mauchliue. He had since em- 
barlied in the study of the law, and was 
preparing for that profession at Edinburgh. 

Page 271, Note 3. — Mauchhne Corse is 
the name of the Market Cross, in the centre 
of the village or town. 

Page 272, Note 4. According to 
Motherwell, the piece to which Burns alludes 
iu this letter was that entitled the Mountain 
Dasiii, or as it was called in the original 
luaiHiscript, The Goavan. 

Page 272, Note 5. — Mr. David Brice 
was a shoemaker at Glasgow, and an early 
associate of the poet. 

Page 272, Note 6. — Alluding to Miss 
Jean Armour's return from Paisley, to which 
she had been sent by her parents, to be out 
of the reach of her too ardent lover. Burns 
writes iu this spirit under the impression 
that her own feehugs towards hira had 
actually been distorted by the influence of 
her friends. This was, to a certain extent, 
the case, as we have had occasion to notice 



in the foregoing portion of this volume, in 
the dissertation on the Life of Robert 
Burns. 

Page 275, Note 7. — The e.Kpvessions 
contained in this letter strongly betray the 
extreme distress from which Burns was 
suft'ering, owing to the forced separation 
between himself and Jean Armour. 

Page 275, Note 8. — An allusion to the 
efforts which were being made at this time 
by Mr. Aiken, and the other friends of the 
poet, to procure for him an appointment to 
office in the Excise. 

Page 276, Note 9. — Miss Alexander, 
the sister of !Mr. Claude Alexander, wlio had 
recently purchased the estate of Ballocb- 
myle. 

Page 27G, Note 10.— The 25th of 
January, 1759, was the day on which Burns 
was born. 

P.\ge 277, Note 11. — The designation 
applied to old bachelors. 

P.\GE 277, Note 12. — Without a proper 
covering or cloak to protect you from its 
rigour. 

Page 277, Note 13.— Lady Betty Cun- 
ningham. 

Page 278, Note 14. — This paper was 
written by the author of The Man of 
Feeling, ilr. Mackenzie. 

Page 279, Note 15. — One of those 
traditionary examples with which the lively 
memory of Burns was so teeming. He 
appears to have retained and culled these 
recollections of his early years with peculiar 
veneration. 

Page 280, Note Iti. — Br. Moore's letter. 



514 



NOTES TO THE 



to which this letter was a reply, rau as 
follows : — 

" Clifford Street, Januarg 2?,rd, 1787. 

" Sir — I have just received your letter, by 
which I find I have reason to complain of 
my friend Mrs. Dunlop, for transmitting to 
you extracts from ray letters to her, by much 
too freely, and too carelessly written for 
your perusal. I must forgive her, however, 
in consideration of her good intention, as 
you will forgive me, I hope, for the freedom 
I use with certain expressions, in con- 
sideration of my admiration of the poems in 
general. If I may judge of the author's 
disposition from his works, with all the 
other good qualities of a poet, he has not 
the irritable temper ascribed to that race of 
men by one of their own number, whom you 
have the happiness to resemble in ease and 
curious felicity of expression. Indeed, the 
poetical beauties, however original and 
brilliant, and lavishly scattered, are not all I 
admire in your works ; the love of your 
native country, that feeling sensibility to all 
the objects of humanity, and the inde- 
pendent spirit which breathes through the 
whole, give me a most favourable impression 
of the poet, and have made me often regret 
that I did not see the poems, the certain 
effect of which would have been my seeing 
the author, last summer, when I was longer 
in Scotland than I have been for many years. 

" I rejoice very sincerely at the encourage- 
ment you receive at Edinburgh, and I think 
you peculiarly fortunate in the patronage of 
Dr. Blair, who, I am informed, interests 
himself very much for you. I beg to be re- 
membered to him ; nobody can have a 
warmer regard for that gentleman than I 
have, which, independent of the worth of 
his character, would be kept alive by the 
memory of our common friend, the late Mr. 
George B e. 

" Before I received your letter, I sent, en- 
closed in a letter to , a sonnet by Miss 

Williams, a young poetical lady, which she 
WTote on reading your Mountain Daisy ; 
perhaps it may not displease you : — 

•While soon " the garden's flaunting flowers" 
decay 

And scatter'd on the earth neglected lie. 
The ' Mountain-Daisy,' cherish'd by the ray 

A poet drew from heaven, shall never die. 
Ah, like that lonely flower the poet rose ! 

'Mid penury's bare soil and bitter gale ; 
He felt each storm that on the mountain 
blows. 

Nor ever knew the ahelter of the vale. 



By genius in her native vigour iiurst, 

On nature with impassion'd look he gazed; 
Then through the cloud of adverse fortune 
burst 

Indignant, and in light unborrowed blazed. 
Scotia ! from rude affliction shield thy bard ; 
His heaven-taught numbers Fame herself 
will guard.' 

" I have been trying to add to the number 
of your subscribers, but find many of my 
acquaintance are already among them. I 
have only to add, that, with every sentiment 
of esteem, and the most cordial good wishes, 
I am, your obedient humble servant, 

J. Moore." 

Page 282, Note 17.— Subjoined is Dr. 
Moore's reply to this letter, which is added 
to throw additional light on the subject : — 
" Clifford Street, Feb. 2Stk, 1787. 

"Dear Sir — Your letter of the 15th gave 
me a great deal of pleasure. It is not sur- 
prising that you improve in correctness and 
taste, considering where you have been for 
some time past. And I dare swear there is 
no danger of your admitting any polish 
which might weaken the vigour of your 
native powers. 

" I am glad to perceive that you disdain 
the nauseous affectation of decrying your 
own merit as as a poet, an affectation which 
is displayed with most ostentation by those 
who have the greatest share of self-conceit, 
aud which only adds undeceiving falsehood 
to disgusting vanity. For you to deny the 
merit of your poems, would be arraigning the 
fiiced opinion of the public. 

"As the new edition of my T^ieio of 
Society is not yet ready, I have sent you 
the former edition, which I beg you will 
accept as a small m;irk of my esteem. It is 
sent by sea to the care of Mr. Creech; and 
along with these four volumes for yourself^ 
I have also sent my Medical Sketches in, 
one volume, for my friend iMrs. Dunlop, of 
Dunlop ; this you will be so obliging as to 
transmit, or, if you chance to pass soou by 
Dunlop, to give to her. 

" I am happy to hear that your subscrip- 
tion is so ample, and shall rejoice at every 
piece of good fortune that befalls you. For 
you are a very great favourite in my family ; 
and this is a higher compliment than perhaps 
you are aware of. It includes almost all the 
professions, and, of course, is a proof that 
your writings are adapted to various tastes 
and situations. My yoiuigest son, who is at 
AVinchester school, writes to me, that he is 
translating some stanzas of your ' Hallowe'en' 
iiiio Latin verse, for the benefit of his com 



CORRESPONDENCE OP BURNS. 



615 



rades. This unison of taste partly proceeds, 
no doubt, from the cement of Scottish par- 
tiality, with which they are all somewhat 
tinctured. Even your translator, who left 
Scotland too early in hfe for recollection, is 
not without it. I remain, with great since- 
rity, your obedient servant, J. Moore." 

Page 282, Note 18.— Mr. William 
Dunbar was writer to the Signet, in Edin- 
burgh, and was the person celebrated ia the 
song. Rattling Roaring Willie. 

Page 280, Note 19. — Dr. Smith was 
author of the well-known work, entitled 
The Wealth of Nations, and of some admirable 
translations of the best Greek authors. 

Page 286, Note 20.— Subjoined is Dr. 
Moore's reply to this letter : — 

"Clifford Street, May 23rd, 1787. 

"Dear Sir — I had the pleasure of your 
letter by Mr. Creech, and soou after he sent 
me the new edition of your poems. You 
seem to think it incumbent on you to send 
to each subscriber a number of copies pro- 
portionate to his subscription money, but 
you may depend upon it, few subscribers 
expect more than one copy, whatever they 
subscribed ; I must inform you, however, 
that I took twelve copies for those sub- 
scribers, for whose money you were so 
accurate as to send me a receipt, and Lord 
Eglinton told me he had sent for six copies 
for himself, as he wished to give five of them 
as presents. 

" Some of the poems you have added in 
this last edition are very beautiful, particu- 
larly the ' Winter Night,' the ' Address to 
Edinburgh,' 'Green grow the rashes,' and 
the two songs immediately foUowing^the 
latter of which is exquisite. By the way, 
I imagine you have a peculiar talent for such 
compositions which you ought to indulge. 
No kind of poetry demands more delicacy 
or higher polishing. Horace is more ad- 
mired on account of his Odes than all his 
other writings. But nothing now added is 
equal to your 'Vision' and ' Cotter's Satur- 
day Night.' In these are united fine ima- 
gery, natural and pathetic description, with 
sublimity of language and thought. It is 
evident that you already possess a great 
variety of expression and command of the 
English language ; you ought therefore to 
deal more sparingly for the future in the 
provincial dialect. — Why should you, by using 
that, limit the number of your admirers to 
those who understand the Scottish, when 
you can extend it to all persons of taste who 
understand the English language? In my 
opiidon, you should plan some larger work 



than any you have as yet attempted. I mean, 
reflect upon some proper subject, and ar- 
range the plan in your mind, without begin- 
ning to execute any part of it till you have 
studied most of the best English poets, and 
read a little more of history. The Greek 
and Roman stories you can read in some 
abridgment, and soon become master of 
some of the most brilliant facts, which must 
highly delight a poetical mind. You should 
also, and very soon may, become master of 
the heathen mythology, to which there are 
everlasting allusions in all the poets, and 
which in itself is charmingly fanciful. What 
will require to be studied with more atten- 
tion, is modern history ; that is, the history 
of France and Great Britain, from the begin- 
ning' of Henry VII.'s reign. I know very 
well you have a mind capable of attaining 
knowledge by a shorter process than is 
commonly used, and I am certain you are 
capable of making a better use of it, when 
attained, than is generally done. 

" I beg you will not give yourself the 
trouble of writing to me when it is incon- 
venient, and make no apology when you 
do write for having postponed it, — be assured 
of this, however, that I shall always be 
happy to hear from you. I think ray friend 
Mr. Creech told me that you had some poems 
in manuscript by you, of a satirical and 
humorous nature (iu which, by the way, I 
think you very strong), which your prudent 
friends prevailed on you to omit, particu- 
larly one called ' Somebody's Confession ; ' 
if you will entrust me with a sight of any 
one of these, I will pawn ray word to give 
no copies, and will be obliged to you for a 
perusal of them. 

"I understand you intend to take a farm, 
and make the useful and respectable busi- 
ness of husbandry your chief occupation : 
this, I hope, will not prevent your making 
occasional addresses to the nine ladies who 
have shown you such favour, one of whom 
visited you in the ' auld clay biggin.' 
Virgil, before you, proved to the world that 
there is nothing iu the business of husban- 
dry inimical to poetry ; and I sincerely hope 
that you may afford an example of a good 
poet being a successful farmer. I fear it 
will not be in my power to visit Scotland 
this season ; when I do, I'll endeavour to 
find you out, for I heartily wish to see and 
converse with you. If ever your occasions 
call you to this place, I make no doubt of 
your paying me a visit, and you may depend 
on a very cordial welcome from this family. 
I am, dear Sir, your friend and obedient 
servant, "J Moore." 



45 



610 



NOTES TO THE 



Page 28i3, Note 21. — Throng, a very 
familiar Scottish term for busy — " having 
one's liands full." 

Page 286, Note 22. — Burns here alludes 
to his excursion to the south, to visit 
places of interest, and full of the traditions 
of the Border contests of early Scottish 
history. 

Page 287, Note 23. — An engraving 
executed by Beugo, from Nasmyth's por- 
trait of Robert Burns, and which all persons 
admitted to be even a more faithful likeness 
than the picture, although that possessed 
much merit. 

Page 287, Note 24. — Subjoined is Dr. 
Blair's reply to this letter : — 

" Anjijle Square, Edinburgh, May ith, >787. 

" Dear Sir — I was favoured this fore- 
noon with your very obliging lettter, to- 
gether with an impression of your portrait, 
for which I return you my best thanks. 
Tlie success you have met with I do not 
think was beyond your merits ; and if I 
have had any small hand in contributing to 
it, it gives me great pleasure. I know no 
way in which literary persons who are ad- 
vanced in years can do more service to the 
world, than in forwarding the efforts of 
rising genius, or bringing forth unknown 
merit from obscurity. I was the first person 
who brought out to the knowledge of the 
world the poems of Ossian ; first, by the 
' Fragments of ancient Poetry,' which I 
published, and afterwards, by my setting on 
foot the undertaking for collecting and 
publishing the ' Works of Ossian ; ' and I 
have always considered this as a meritorious 
action of my life. 

" Your situation, as you say, was indeed 
singular ; and in being brought, all at once, 
from the shades of deepest privacy to so 
great a share of public notice and observa- 
tion, you had to stand a severe trial. I am 
happy that you have stood is so well ; and, 
as far as I have, known or heard, though in 
the midst of many temptations, without 
reproach to your character and behaviour. 

" You are now, I presume, to retire to a 
more private walk of life; and I trust will 
conduct yourself there with industry, pru- 
dence, and honour. You have laid the 
foundation for just public esteem. In the 
midst of those employments which your 
situation will render proper, you will not, I 
hope, neglect to promote that esteem, by 
cultivating your genius, and attending to 
such productions of it as may raise your 
character still higher. At the same time, 
be not in too great a haste to come forward. 



Take time and leisure to improve and mature 
your talents ; for, on any second production 
you give the world, your fate, as a poet, will 
very much depend. There is no doubt a 
gloss of novelty, which time wears off. As 
you very properly hint yourself, you are not 
to be surprised, if in your rural retreat you 
do not find yourself surrounded with that 
glare of notice and applause which here 
shone i;poii you. No man can be a good 
poet without being somewhat of a philoso- 
pher. He must lay his account, that any 
one, who exposes him to public observation, 
will occasionally meet with the attacks of 
illiberal censure, which it is always best to 
overlook and despise. He will be inclined 
sometimes to court retreat, and to disappear 
from public view. He will not affect to 
shine always, that he may at proper seasons 
come forth with more advantaye and energy. 
He will not think himself neglected if he be 
not always praised. I have taken the 
liberty, you see, of an old man to give ad- 
vice and make reflections, which your own 
good sense will, I dare say, render un- 
necessary. 

"As you mention your being just about to 
leave town, you are going, I should suppose, 
to Dumfries-shire, to look at some of Mr. 
Miller's farms. I heartily wish the offers to 
be made you there may answer, as I am per- 
suaded you will not easily find a more 
generous and better-hearted proprietor to 
live under than Mr. Miller. When you 
return, if you come this way, I will be happy 
to see you, and to know concerning your 
future plans of life. You will find me by 
the 22nd of this month, not in my house in 
Argyle square, but at a country house in Res- 
talrig, about a mile east of Edinburgh, near 
the Musselburg road. Wishing you, with 
the wannest interest, all success and pros- 
perity, I am, with true regard and esteem, 
dear Sir, yours sincerely, liuGii Blair." 

Page 287, Note 25.— Burns here alludes 
to an extempore address, which he wrote off- 
hand to Mr. Creech, of which the opening 
words are Auld Chuckie Jleekie's sair 
cJistrest,-AnA which will be found amongst the 
poems in the foregoing part of this volume. 

Page 287, Note 26. — This patron was 
James, Earl of Glcncairn, whose countenance 
had also reared IMr. Creech to eminence ; — 
that celebrated bibliopole having formerly 
travelled with the earl (then a very young 
man), in the capacity of tutor and companion 
to his lordship. It was by Lord Glencairn, 
as we have already observed, that Burns 
was introduced to Creech. 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



•517 



Page 287, Note 27. — Burns here alludes 
1o his friend and correspondent, for whom 
he penned some of his best songs, namely, 
Mr. Johnson, the compiler and publisher of 
the Scots' Musical Museum. 

Page 288, Note 28.— Mr. Peter Hill, 
afterwards in business for himself as a book- 
seller, and honoured by the poet's corres- 
pondence. Beared with Mr. Creech, he was 
im his turn, master to Mr. Constable. He 
ilied at an advanced age in 1836. 

Page 288, Note 29. — This wonderful 
beast had been named Jenny Geddes by the 
poet, in honour of the old woman to whom 
tradition assigns the credit of having cast 
the first stool at the dean's head in St. 
Giles's church, July 23, 1637, when the 
liturgy imposed ou Scotland by Charles I. 
was first read. 

Page 288, Note 30. — Auchtertyre was 
the seat of Sir William Murray, Bart., situ- 
ated in a picturesque and romantic district, 
a few miles from Crieff. The son and suc- 
cessor of the then proprietor, namely. Sir 
George JIurray, was subsequently a mem- 
ber of Pitt's administration, as Secretary for 
the Colonies. 

Page 288, Note 31.— This was Auch- 
tertyre, near Stirling, ou the banks of the 
Teitli. Mr. Ramsay was not only an accom- 
plished scholar, and remarkable for his 
distinguished classical attainments and re- 
fined taste ; but was possessed with a warm 
national enthusiasm, in favour of the simple 
and truthful imagery and diction of the less 
polished literature of his own country. 

Page 289, Note 32.— Mr. Cruikshank, 
of the High School, Edinburgh, and the 
father of the fair Miss Cruikshank whom 
Burns has so delicately celebrated in his 
song of the Rosebud. 

Page 290, Note 33. — Mr. Ainslie was 
educated to the profession of the law, and 
subsequently became a writer to the Signet, 
in Edinburgh. He survived the poet nearly 
half a century, and died at Edinburgh, on 
the 11th of April 1838, at the advanced age 
of seventy-two years. At the time in 
question, lie was barely over twenty. He 
had accompanied Burns on his poetical ex- 
cursion through the southern or border 
districts. 

Page 291, Note 34. — ^Ir. Andrew 
Bruce, of the North Bridge, Edinburgh. 

Page 291, Note 33. — Hugh, the neigh- 
bour's herdsman, who cuts such a quaint 
figure in the poem of Poor Mailie, Burus'a 
pet ewe. 

Page 291, Note 36.— Miss Charlotte 
Hamilton subsequently married Dr. Adah-, 



a physician, at Harrowgate, and survived tlu; 
poet nearly forty years. She was celebrated 
by the poet in the song entitled the Banks 
of the Devon. 

Page 291, Note 37.— Mr. Hamilton's 
son, who figures in the poem entitled The 
Dedication, by the designation of Jfee cudie 
Johnnie. 

Page 292, Note 38.— Mr. Walker was 
employed by the Duke of Athole, at his 
seat of Blair Athole, in the capacity of tutor 
to his grace's children. It was at Blair 
Athole that Burns had first met him, and 
become acquainted with him, only a few 
days before the date of this letter, that is, in 
the mouth of September, 1787, in the course 
of one of his Highland excursions. 

Page 292, Note 39.— The poet here 
alludes to the lines entitled the Address of 
Bruar Water to the Duke of Athole. It will 
be remembered that in a previous allusion to 
this subject, we stated that the spot was 
originally bare an4 unadorned by plantations, 
for which the capahdities of the landscape so 
especially fitted this beautiful spot. Burns 
was the first who suggested to the Duke 
the bestowal of a little art in laying out this 
portion of his estate in ornamental grounds 
— a suggestion which the Duke quickly 
adopted. 

Page 292, Note 40.— The Duchess of 
Athole of the time being, was the daughter 
of Charles, Lord Cathcait (the ninth of the 
title), and the "little angel hand," of which 
Burns speaks with such fervour, were 
severally, the Lady Charlotte jNIurray, then 
only twelve years of age, and subsequently 
married to Sir John Menzies, of Castle 
Menzies ; Lady Amelia Murray, then seven 
years of age, and subsequently married to 
the Lord Viscount Strathallan; and lastly. 
Lady Elizabeth Murray, then only five 
months old (an infant in arms), and since 
married to Macgregor Murray, of Lanrick. 

Page 292, Note 41.— The valley of 
Strathspey has given its name to the dancing 
tunes in quick time, so popular in Scotland, 
and especially in the Highlands, and which 
derived their origin remotely from this 
district. 

Page 292, Note 42. — Stonehaven, some- 
times also called Stonehive, by the people of 
the country. 

Page 2'92, Note 43.— The youngest 
daughter of the late James Chalmers, Esq., 
of Finglaud. She married, December 9, 
1788, Lewis Hay, Esq., of the banking tirni 
of Sir William Forbes, James Hunter, and 
Company, Edinburgh. Mrs. Hay has since 
resided at Pau, in the south of France. 



ei8 



NOTES TO THE 



Paoe 293, Note 44. — The second num- 
ber of the Scots Musical Museum, edited 
and pubhshed by Johnson. 

Page 293, Note 45. — These son^s, which 
Burns enthusiastically admired, were the 
works of the Rev. John Skinner, the epis- 
copalian officiating minister at Longside, 
near Peterhead. 

Page 291, Note 46. — Hoy was librarian 
to the Duke of Gordon for forty-six years 
antecedent to his death hi 182S. He was a 
simple, pure-hearted man, of the Dominie 
Sampson genus, and had attracted the regard 
of Burns during the short stay of the poet 
at Gordon Castle. 

Page 29-1, Note 47. — Alexander, fourth 
Duke of Gordon, who entertained Burns at 
Gordon Castle, possessed considerable abili- 
ties for song writing, though few of his 
verses have been made public. The song 
alluded to by Burns seems to have been ob- 
tained from Mr. Hoy, as it appears in 
Johnson's second volume. 

Page 296, Note 48. Mr. Charles Hay, 
afterwards Lord Newton. He was a man of 
much wit, and not by any means deficient of 
learning in the abstruser questions of his 
profession. That his qualifications as a 
lawyer were by uo means contemptible, his 
subsequent attainment of a judgeship suffi- 
ciently testifies. In his earlier days, and at 
the period of his correspondence with the 
poet, however, he was probably more strongly 
given to the bottle, the song and the 
repartee, than to very deep questions of 
jurisprudence. 

Page 296. Note 49.— The Charlotte 
here meant was Miss Charlotte Hamilton, 
sister of Mr. Gavin Hamilton, the poet's firm 
friend. 

Page 297, Note 50.— Alluding to the 
song dedicated to jNIiss Chalmers, and of 
which the initiatory line runs thus : — 

" Where braving angry winter's storms." 

Page 298, Note 51. — It is not impro- 
bable that the locality illustrated in these 
lines, to wit, Glenap, had some considerable 
share in the deep interest which they excited 
in the mind of Burns. Glenap is a small 
place iu the southern part of Ayrshire, and 
the local associations were no doubt powerful 
to render any song which celebrated them 
interesting in the eyes of Burns. 

Page 293, Note 52. — After a long and 
honourable practice as a surgeon at Irvine, 
Mr. Mackenzie, who had there occupied every 
honourable post in the township, finally (in 
1827) retired to the metropolis, where he 
continued to reside until his death, on the 



11th of January, 1837. In the course of his 
medical career, he sought and attained a 
physician's diploma, and it was by him (as 
Dr. Mackenzie) that Burns was presented to 
Professor Dugald Stewart, also a warm 
friend, and great admirer of the genius oi 
the Scottish Bard. Furljier details on the 
subject of Burns's intimacy with these two 
worthy and distinguished contemporaries, 
may be gathered from the particulars afforded 
in the memoir which forms the first part of 
this volume. 

Page 299, Note 53.— Miss Williams 
had, in the previous month of June, addressed 
a letter of compliment to Burns, which may 
be found in the Edinburgh Mcif/azine for Sep- 
tember, 1817, where the letter iu the text also 
appeared for the first time, along with the foU 
lowing note bytheeditor,Mr.Thomas I'ringle: 
— "The critique, though not without some 
traits of his usual sound judgment and dis- 
crimination, appears on the whole to be much 
in the strain of those gallant and flattering 
responses which men of genius usually find 
it incumbent to issue, when consulted upon 
the productions of their female admirers." 

Page 300, Note 54. — This was the per- 
son whom Burns, in his autobiographical 
letter to Dr. Moore, describes as his com- 
panion at Irvine — whose mind was fraught 
with every manly virtue, and who, neverthe- 
less, was tlie means of making him regard 
illicit love with levity. 

Page 301, Note 55.— Mrs. McLehose, 
so well known to those who are conversant 
with the life and works of Burns, under the 
fictitious name of Clarinda. 

Page 301, Note 56. — This, according 
to the arrangement of Motherwell, is the first 
of the letters extant, and addressed by Robert 
Burns to Mrs. McLehose, although it had 
previously been published as the second. 
The date, according to the same authority, 
must have been December Gth, 1787, to 
which it is added, that the poet " was to have 
drunk tea with her on that day, but was dis- 
appointed by the lady, who afterwards 
repeated her invitation for Saturday (the next 
day but one), when he was once more disap- 
pointed, in consequence of the accident 
which confined him to his room for several 
weeks, and by which his leg was seriously 
injured. 

Page 302, Note 57. — If our conjecture 
as to the date of the foregoing letter be cor- 
rect, as stated in the Note, number 56, it is 
obvious that this note must have been written 
and despatched on Saturday, the 8th of De- 
cember, 1787. We are confirmed as to the 
date of these letters, by those addressed to 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



519 



others of his correspondents, and to Miss I 
Cliuhners in particular.towhichBurnshadpre- 
fix(!d dates, and which liave deliiiitely pointed | 
to Saturday, December the 8th, 1787, as the 
day npon which the accident occurred, by 
wliich his lesr was injured. We have already 
stated that Jlrs. Mclvchose had deferred re- 
ceiving Burns on the Thursday previous, and 
had named tliis day (Saturday) to receive him 
instead. 

Page 302, Note 58.— The letter of the 
21st of December, to which Burns here 
alludes, has been lost, and we can only infer 
the contents from the context of the present 
letter, and from the reply in verse which he 
received from j\lrs. McLehose in the lines 
beginning — 

"Talk not of love, it gives me pain," &c. 

Tliis letter was the first of that series which 
was signed with the Arcadian name of 
" Clarinda," and which Burns here repeats 
■with marked emphasis. , 

Page 303, Note 59. — Judging from the 
facts communicated, or alluded to, or from 
the contents of other letters, evidently of the 
same period, this letter must have been 
written between the 3Ist of December 1787, 
and the ord of January 1788. It would 
almost seem as if we had lost some of the 
intermediary notes; but it is also evident 
that there could not have been a very volu- 
minous series of letters intervening between 
that of December 21st and this one. 

Page 306, Note 60.— The date of this 
letter was probably before the 20th of 
January, and it might possibly have been as 
early as the eighth of the same month ; we 
can only infer ambiguously from the context, 
and the circumstances which transpire in 
other letters of the same period. A contem- 
porary of both Burns and Clarinda, has 
definitely fixed this letter for the 12th of 
January 1788, but upon what grounds I do 
not precisely know ; possibly, however, from 
some occurrence of circumstances which 
miglit have rendered the date conclusive. 

Page 308, Note G1. — An allusion to 
the novel of Fielding, entitled Amelia, to 
which Clarinda had drawn his attention 
especially. 

Page 310, Note 02. — Burns here alludes 
to the song of which the opening line is 

" Clarinda, mistress of my soul." 
Page 314, Note 63.— This letter was a 
reply to the subjoined letter, received by 
Burns from Mr. Skinner, in which he alludes 
to a project for the publication of a complete 
collection of Scottish songs :— 

45 



"Linsheart, \4lh November, 1737. 

"Sir — Your kind return without date, but 
of post-mark October 25th, came to my hand 
only this day; and, to testify ray punctuahty 
to my poetic engagement, I sit down imiiie- 
diately to answer it in kind. Your acknow- 
ledgment of my poor but just encomiums on 
your surprising genius, and your opinion of 
my rhyming excursions, are both, I think, by 
far too high. The difference between our two 
tracks of education and ways of life is entirely 
in your favour, and gives you the preference 
in every manner of way. I know a classical 
education will not create a versifying taste, 
but it mightily improves and assists it ; and 
though, where both these meet, there may 
sometimes be ground for approbation, yet 
where taste appears single, as it were, and 
neither cramped nor supported by acquisition, 
I will always sustain the justice of its prior 
claim to applause. A small portion of taste, 
this way, 1 have had almost from childhood, 
especially in the old Scottish dialect : and it 
is as old a thing as I remember, my fondness 
for ' Christ-kirk o' the Green,' which I had 
by heart ere I was twelve years of age, and 
which, some years ago, I attempted to turn 
into Latin verse. AVhile I was young, T 
dabbled a good deal in these things ; but, 
on getting the black gown, I gave it pretty 
much over, till my daughters grew up, who, 
being all good singers, plagued me for words 
to some of their favourite tunes, and so ex- 
torted these eliusions, which have made a 
public appearance beyond my expectations, 
and contrary to my intentions, at the same 
tim'j that 1 hope there is nothing to be found 
in them uncharacteristic, or unbecoming the 
cloth, which I would always wish to see 
respected. 

" As to the assistance you propose from me 
in the undertaking you are engaged in, I am 
sorry I cannot give it so far as I could wish, 
and you perhaps expect. My daughters, 
who were my only intelligencers, are all 
forli-familiate, and the ohl woman their 
mother has lost that taste. There are two 
from my own pen, which I might give you, 
if worth the while. One to the old Scotch 
tune of ' Dumbarton's Drums.' 

'■ The other, perhaps, you have met with, as 
your noble friend, the duchess, has, 1 am 
told, heard of it. It was squeezed out of 
me by a brother parson in her neighbour- 
hourhood, to accommodate a new Highland 
reel for the Marquis's birth-day to the 
stanza of 

'Tune your fiddles, tune them sweeiiy,'&c. 

"If this last answer your purpose, you 



520 



NOTES TO THE 



may luive it from a brother o. mine, Mr. 
James Skinner, writer, in Edinburgh, who, 
I believe, can give the music too. 

" There is anotlier humorous thing, I have 
heard said to be done by the Cathohc priest 
Geddes, and which hit my taste much : — 

'Tliere flas a wee wifeikie, was coming frae 

the fair, 
Had gotten a little drapikie, which bred 

her meikle care. 
It took upo' the wifie's heart, and she 

began to spew. 
And co' the wee wifeikie, I wish I biuna 

fou. 

I wish,' &c., &c. 
"I have heard of another new composition, 
by a young ploughman of my acquaintance, 
that I am vastly pleased with, to the tune 
of ' The humours of Glen,' which I fear 
won't do, as the music, I am told, is of Irish 
original. I have mentioned these, such as 
they arc, to show my readiness to oblige 
you, aud to contribute my mite, if I could, 
to the patriotic work you have in baud, and 
which I wish all success to. You have only 
to notify your mind, and what you want of 
the aliove, shall be scut you. 

" Jleantiiue, while you are thus publicly, I 
may say, employed, do not sheath your own 
proper and piercing weapon. From what I 
have seen of yours already, I am inclined to 
hope for much good. One lesson of virtue 
and morality, delivered in your amusing 
style, and from such as you, will operate 
more than dozens would do from such as 
me, who shall be told it is our employment, 
and be never more minded : whereas, from 
It pen like yours, as being one of the many, 
what comes will be admired. Admiration 
will produce regard, and regard will leave an 
impression, especially when example goes 
along with it. 

Now binna saying I'm ill bred, 
Else, by my troth, I'll no be glad ; 
For cadgers, ye have heard it said. 

And sic like fry. 
Maun aye be harland in their trade. 

And sae maun I. 

"Wishing you, from my poet-pen, all 
success, and, in my other character, all 
happiness and heavenly direction, I remain, 
wiih esteem, your sincere friend, 

"John Skinner." 
Page 314, Note 64. — Dr. Webster was 
the orticiating minister of the Scottish Epis- 
copalian Church, at Edinburgh. 

" P.\GE 315, Note 65. — The "Two fair 
spirits of the Hill" alluded to, were Miss 



Sophia Brodie, and Jliss Rose, of Kilva- 
rock. 

Page 316, Note 66.— "The letters to 
Richard Brown, written at a period when 
the poet was in the full blaze of reputation, 
showed that he was at no time so dazzled 
with success, as to forget the friends who 
had anticipated the public by discovering his 
merit." — Walker. 

P.VGE 316, Note 67. — An intervening 
letter, which probably bore date about the 
2ord of February, has not transpired. AVe 
are led to the conviction that such a letter, 
did exist, from the context and the allusions 
contained in this letter. 

Page 317, Note 68. — Burns here alludes 
to Mr. James Tennant, of Glenconner, ia 
Ayrshire, to whom he addressed a brief 
poem (which will be found in its proper 
place in this volume). It was the same Mr. 
James Tennant, who had previously in- 
spected other farms which Burns contem- 
plated hiring. 

Page 320, Note 69. — ^It is probable from 
the allusions contained in this letter that it 
was written after the brief visit of the poet 
to Edinburgh, in which he finally concluded 
the bargain with Mr. Miller, to take the farm 
of Ellisland. It was on the 13th of ilarch, 
that this contract was closed ; and judging 
from circumstances, the date of this letter 
would have been about the ISth of Jlarch, 
1783. Burns did not see Mrs. McLcliose 
in this instance, and appears even to have 
avoided an interview, for private reasons. 

Page 322, Note 70. — The words in 
question, are those which bear the title of 
the Chevallicr's Lament. 

Page 322, Note 71. — The allusion here 
made is to his marriage with Jean Armour. 

Page 326, Note 72. — Burns, of course, 
again alludes to his marriage with Jean 
Armour. 

Page 326, Note 73. — Alluding to the 
death of Mr. Samuel Mitchelson. \niier to 
the Signet in Edinburgh, who had been the 
friend and master of Mr. Ainslie, and which 
occurred on the 21st of June, 1788. 

Page 327, Note 74. — Burns alludes to 
a parcel of books, which his friend, Mr. Hill, 
ha<l sent to him as a present. 

Page 328, Note 75.— Mr. David 
Ramsay, the printer, and publisher, of 
the Edinburyh Eveninrj Cotirant. 

Page 328, Note 76. — The Crochallan 
Fcncibles, a select club of wits and conge- 
nial spirits, to which Burns belonged, and to 
which he very frequently alludes. 

Page 328, Note 77. — Mr. Alexander 
Cunningham, jeweller, of Edinburgh, a 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



m 



mutual friend of Robert Burns and George 
Thomson. 

Page 333, Note 78— ]Mr. Morrison 
was a cabinet maker and upholsterer at 
Manchline, who had undertaken to furnish 
Buriis's new house at EUisland, as soon as 
it should be completed. 

Page 33G, Note 79. — A quey — a heifer. 

Page 339, Note 80.— This letter was a 
reply to one received by Burns from Mr. 
Carfrae, of which the subjoined is a copy : — 

"January 2nd, 1780. 

"Sir — If you have lately seen Mrs. 
Dunlop, of Dunlop, you have certandy heard 
of the author of the verses which accompany 
this letter. He was a man higlily respected 
for every accomplishment and virtue which 
adorns the character of a man or a Cliris- 
tian. To a great degree of literature, of 
taste and poetic genius, was added an in- 
vincible modesty of temper, which prevented, 
in a great degree, his figuring in life, and 
con lined the perfect knowledge of his 
character and talents to the small circle of 
his chosen friends. He was untimely taken 
from us, a few weeks ago, by an inflammatory 
fever, in the prime of life ; beloved by all 
who enjoyed his acquaintance, and lamented 
by all who have any regard for virtue or 
genius. There is a woe pronounced in Scrip- 
ture against the person whom all men speak 
well of ; if ever that woe fell upon the head 
of mortal man, it fell upon him. He has left 
behind him a considerable number of com- 
positions, chiefly poetical, sutticient, I ima- 
gine, to make a large octavo volume. In 
particular, two complete and regular trage- 
dies, a farce of three acts, and some smaller 
poems on difterent subjects. It falls to my 
share, who have lived in the most intimate 
and uninterrupted friendship with him from 
my youth upwards, to submit to you the 
verses he wrote on the publication of your 
incomparable poems. It is probable they 
were his last, as they were found in his 
escritoire, folded up with the form of a letter 
addressed to you, and, I imagine, were only 
prevented from being sent by himself, by 
that melancholy dispensation which we still 
bemoan. The verses themselves I will not 
pretend to criticise, when writing to a gen- 
tlemen whom I consider as entirely qualilied 
to judge of their merit. They are the only 
verses he seems to have attempted iu the 
Scottish style ; and I hesitate not to say, iu 
general, that they will bring no dishonour 
on the Scottish muse ; and allow me to add, 
that if it is your opinion they are not un- 
worthy of the author, and wUl be no dis- I 



credit to you, it is the inclination of Mr. 
Myliies' friends that they should immediately 
be published in some periodical work, to 
give the world a specimen of what may be 
expected from his performances iu the 
poetic line, which perhaps will afterwards be 
published for the advantage of bis family. 

"I must beg the favour of a letter from 
you acknowledging the receipt of this, and 
to be allowed to subscribe myself, with 
great regard. Sir, your most obedient 
servant. P. Carfrae." 

Page 340, Note 81. — The piety of this 
letter receives a hannouious response from 
the following, addressed on the same day 
by Gilbert Burns to his poetical brother : — 

" Mossgiel, January Ist, 1789. 

"Dear Brother — I have just flnished 
my ne«v-year's-day breakfast in the usual 
form, which naturally makes me call to 
mind the days of former years, and the 
society in which we used to begin them; 
and when I look at our family vicissitudes, 
' through the dark postern of time long 
elapsed,' I cannot help remarking to you, 
my dear brother, how good the God of 
Seasons is to us, and that, however some 
clouds may seem to lower over the portion 
of time before us, we have great reason to 
hope that all will turn out well. 

" Your mother and sisters, with Robert the 
second, join me in the compliments of the 
season to you and Mrs. Burns, and beg you 
will remember us in the same manner to 
"William, the first time you see him. I am, 
dear brother, yours, Gilbert Burns." 

Page 342, Note 82. — Alexander Geddes, 
born at Arradowl, in Banffshire, in 1737, 
was reared as a Catholic clergyman, and long 
orticiated in that capacity in his native 
country, and elsewhere. As humbly born 
as Burns, he possessed much of his strong 
and eccentric genius, and it is not surpris- 
ing that he and the Ayrshire bard should 
have become friends. After 1780, his life 
was spent in Ijondon, chiefly under the 
fostering patronage of a generous Catholic 
nobleman. Lord Petre. The heterodox 
opinions of Dr. Geddes, his extraordinary 
attempts to translate the Bible, and his 
numerous fugitne publications on contro- 
versial divinity, made much noise at the 
time ; but he is now only remembered for 
some successful Scotch verses. This singular 
man died in Ijondon, February 20th, 1802. 
in the sixty-fifth year of his age. 

Page 342, Note 83. — A copy of Burns's 
Poems, belonging to Dr. Geddes, into which 
the poet had transferred some of his more 



622 



NOTES TO THE 



recent verses. The volume has since been 
in the possession of Mrs. Hislop, Finsbury 
Square, London. 

Page 343, Note 84.— Burns here alludes 
to his wife's sister-in-law, namely, the wife 
of Mr. Adam Armour, a mason, at Mauch- 
Iine (and brother to Mrs. Burns). Mrs. 
Adam Armour survived the poet nearly half 
a century. 

Page 344, Note 85.— The following is 
the letter to which the above was an answer. 
Dr. Currie has unfortunately suppressed 
the name of this correspondent of our 
poet : — 

"London, Aurjust 5(h, 1789. 
"My Dear Sir— Excuse me when I say, 
that the uncommon abilities wliich you 
possess must render your correspondence 
very acceptable to any one. I can assure 
you I am particularly proud of your partiality, 
and shall endeavour, by every method in my 
power, to merit a continuance of vour 
politeness. 



Page 345, Note 87.-Subjoined is Dx 
Moore's reply to this letter :— 



^^ hen you can spare a few moments, I 
should be proud of a letter from you, directed 
for me, Gerard Street, Soho. 

* * * * « 

" I cannot express my happiness suffi- 
ciently at the instance of your attachment 
to my late inestimable friend. Bob Fergus- 
son, who was particularly intimate with 
myself and relations. While I recollect 
with pleasure his extraordinary talents, and 
many amiable qualities, it affords me the 
greatest consolation that I am honoured 
with the correspondence of his succpssor in 
national simplicity and genius. That Mr. 
Burns has refined in the art of poetry, must 
readily be admitted ; but, notwithstanding 
many favourable representations, I am yet 
to leara that he inherits his convivial 
powers. 

"There was sucii a richness of conver- 
sation, such a plentitude of fancy and 
attraction in him, that when I call the happy 
period of our intercourse to my memory, I 
feel myself in a state of delirium. I was 
then younger than him by eight or ten 
years, but his manner was so felicitious, that 
he enraptured every person around him, 
and infused into the hearts of the young' 
and old, the spirit and animation which 
operated on his own mind. I am, dear Sir 
your's, &c. ' 

Page 344, Note 86.— Mr. Edward 
Neilson, officiating Presbyterian 'Minister of 
the church of Kirkbean, in the Stewartry of 
Kirkcudbright. 



"Clifford Street, June lOtk, 1789. 
"Dear Sir— I thank you for the differ- 
ent communications you have made me of 
your occasional productions in manuscript 
all of which have merit, and some of them 
merit of a different kind from what appears 
in the poems you have pubhshed. You 
ought carefully to preserve all your occasional 
productions, to correct and improve them at 
your leisure; and when you can select as 
many of these as will make a volume pub- 
lish It either at Edinburgh or Loudon by 
subscription : on such an occasion. It may 
be in my power, as it is very much in my 
inclination, to be of service to you. 

" If I were to offer an opinion, it would be 
that, in your future productions, you should 
abandon the Scottish stanza and dialect, and 
adopt the measure and language of modern 
Liiglish poetry. 

'I The stanza which you use in imitation 
ot Christ's Kirk on the green ' with the 
tiresome repetition of ' that day,' is fati"-uing 
to English ears, and I should think not'' very 
agreeable to Scottish. 

" All the fine satire and humour of your 
' Holy Fair,' is lost on the English ; yet with- 
out more trouble to yourself, you could have 
conveyed the whole to them. The same is 
true of some of your other poems. In your 
epistle to J. Smith, the stanzas of that be- 
ginning with this line 'This life so far's I 
understand,' to that which ends with 'short 
w'hile It grieves,' are easy flowin" gaily 
philosophical and of Horaciaa elegance :— the 
language is English, with a few Scottish 
words, and some of those so harmonious as 
to add to the beauty : for what poet would 
not prefer fjloaming to twilir/ht ? 

"1 imagine by carefully keeping, and 
occasionally polishing and corrcctiii"- those 
verses which the muse dictates, you will, 
within a year or two, have another volume 
as large as the first ready for the press ; and 
this, without diverting you from every 
proper attention to the study and practice of 
husbandry, in which I understand you are 
very learned, and which I fancy you will 
choose to adhere to as a wife, whilst poetry 
amuses you from time to time like a mistress. 
" The former, like a prudent wife, must 
not show ill-humour, although you retain a 
sneaking kindness to this agreeable gipsy, 
and pay her occasional visits, which in nr| 
manner alienates your heart from your 
lawful spouse, but tends, on the contrary, t(? 
promote her interest. 






CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



523 



"I desired Mr. Cadell to write to Mr. 
Creech to send you a copy of Zeluco. This 
performance has had great success here ; 
but I shall be f^lad to have your opinion of 
it, because I value your opinion, and because 
I know you are above saying what you do 
not tliink. 

" I beg you will offer my best wishes to 
my very good friend Mrs. llamilton, who, I 
understand, is your neighbour. If she is as 
happy as I wish her, she is happy enough. 
!Make ray compliii.euts also to Mrs. Burns ; 
and believe )ne to be, with sincere esteem, 
dear Sir, your's," &c. &c. 

Page 346. Note 88.— The husband of 
this lady was chamberlain to the Duke of 
Queensberry, at whose house of Drumlanrig 
the family consequently lived. The beauti- 
fid daughters of Mr. and Mrs. M'Murdo are 
the heroines of several of Burns's songs. 

Page 347, Note 89. — Burns had also 
sent a copy of the lines transcribed in this 
letter to Dr. Gregory, for his opinion of 
their merit or demerit, to which Dr. Gregory 
replied as follows : — 

"Edinburgh, June 2nd, 1789. 

"Dear Sir — I take the first leisure 
hour I could commana, to thank you for 
your letter, and the copy of verses enclosed 
in it. As there is real poetic merit, I mean 
both fancy and tenderness, and some happy 
expressions in them, I think they will 
deserve that you should revise them care- 
fully, and polish them to the utmost. This 
1 am sure you can do if you please, for you 
have great command both of expression and 
of rhymes : and you may judge, from the two 
last pieces of Mrs. Hunter's poetry that I 
gave you, how much correctness and high 
polish enhance the value of such compo- 
sitions. As you desire it, I shall, with 
great freedom, give you my most rigorous 
criticism on your verses. I wish you would 
give me another edition of them, much 
amended, and I will send it to Mrs. Hunter, 
wlio, I am sure, will have much pleasure in 
reading it. Pray give me likewise for my- 
self, and her too, a copy (as much amended 
as you please) of the ' \Vater Fowl ou Loch 
Turit.' 

" ' The "Wounded Hare ' is a pretty good 
subject ; but the measure or stanza you 
have chosen for it is not a good one ; it does 
not flow well ; and the rhyme of the fourth 
li;ie is almost lost by its distance from the 
first, and the two interposed close rhymes. 
If I were you, I would put it into a different 
itanza yet. 

"Stanza 1. The execrations in the first 



too lines are two strong or coarse; but thc\ 
may pass. ' IMurder-aiming' is a bad com- 
pound epithet, and not very intelligible. 
' Blood-stained in stanza iii. line 4, has the 
same fault : Bleeding bosom is infinitely 
better. You have accustomed yourself to 
such epithets, and have no notion how stiff 
and quaint they appear to others, and how 
incongruous with poetic fancy and tender 
sentiments. Suppose Pope had written, 
' Why that blood-stained bosom gored,' how 
would you have liked it ? Form is neither 
a poetic, nor a dignified, nor a plain common 
word : it is a mere sportsman's word ; un- 
suitable to pathetic or serious poetry. 

"'Mangled' is a coarse word. 'Innocent,' 
in this sense, is a nursery word, but both 
may pass. 

" Stanza 4. 'Who will now provide that 
life a mother only can bestow?' will not do 
at all : it is not grammar — it is not intelli- 
gible. Do you mean, ' provide for that life 
which the mother had bestowed and used to 
provide for ? ' 

" There was a ridiculous slip of the pen, 
' Feeling ' (I suppose) for ' Fellow,' in the 
title of your copy of verses ; but even fellow 
would be wrong; it is but a colloquial and 
vulgar word, unsuitable to your sentiments. 
' Shot ' is improper too. On seeing a person 
(or a sportsman) wound a hare ; it is need- 
less to add with what weapon ; hut if you 
think otherwise, you should say, with a 
fowling-piece. 

" Let me see you when you come to town, 
and I will show you some more of Mrs' 
Hunter's poems." 

" It must be admitted, that this criticism is 
not more distinguished by its good sense, 
than by its freedom from ceremony. It is 
impossible not to smile at the manner in 
which the poet may be supposed to have 
received it. In fact, it appears, as the sailors 
say, to have thrown him quite aback. In a 
letter which he wrote soon after, he says, ' Dr. 
Gregory is a good man, but he cruelties me.' 
And again, ' I believe in the iron justice of 
Dr. Gregory ; but, like the devils, I believe 
and tremble. ' However, he profited by 
these criticisms, as the reader will find by 
comparing this first edition of the poem with 
that elsewhere published." — Currie. 

Page 3.')0, Note 90.— This lady had 
been introduced to Burns by Dr. Moore. 
It was Miss Helen Maria Williams. 

Page 351 Note 91. — Subjoined is Misa 
Williams reply to this letter : — 

August 7lh, 1780. 

"Dear Sir — I do not lose a moment in 



6'J4 



NOTES TO THE 



returning' yon my sincere acknowledgments 
for your letter, and your criticism on my 
poem, which is a very flattering proof that 
you have read it with attention. I think 
your objections are perfectly just, except in 
one instance. 

" You have indeed been very profuse of 
panegyric on my little performance. A 
much less portion of applause from you 
would have been gratifying to me ; since I 
think its value depends entirely upon the 
source from whence it proceeds — the in- 
cense of praise, like other incense, is more 
grateful from the quality than the quantity 
of the odour. 

" I hope you still cultivate the pleasures 
of poetry, which are precious, even indepen- 
dent of the rewards of fame. Perhaps the 
most valuable property of poetry, is its 
power of disengaging the mind from worldly 
cares, and leaduig the imagination to the 
richest springs of intellectual enjoyment; 
since, however frequently life may be 
chequered with gloomy scenes, those who 
truUy love the muse can always find one 
little path adorned with flowers and cheered 
by sunshine." 

Page 351, Note 92. — ^Mr. John Logan, 
of Knockshinnock, Glen Afton, in the 
county of Ayr. 

Page 354, Note 93.— Burns had in 
this place alluded, with extreme acrimony, 
to the Duke of Queensberry, whom he has 
elsewhere also dealt with, with exemplary 
severity. Dr. Currie, however, prudently 
erased the passage. 

Page 355, Note 94.— Lady M'inifred 
Constable was at this time the lineal 
representative of the House of Constable, of 
Nithsiiale, and was an uncompromising 
Jacobite ni political opinions. Sir Walter 
Scott, in alluding to this letter, which he 
sent to Mr. Lockhart, rallies the opinions of 
Burns as expressed to that " quaint old 
curmudgeon. Lady W. Constable." 

Page 356, Note 95. — Burns here alludes 
to the lines addressed to Mr. William 
Tytler. 

Page 356, Note 96. — An allusion to 
the ex officio leadership of the provost in the 
Marjorie of the Many Locks, and to the 
recent political excitement of the district. 

Page 356, Note 97. — In the song "I 
gaed a waefu' gate yestreen," Burns has 
celebrated one of the daughters of this 
gentleman. He was the minister of the 
church of Lochmaben. 

Page 357, Note 98.— "This letter is 
extracted from the third volume of Sir 
John Siuclair's Statistical Account of 



Scotland, p. 598. — It was enclosed to Sir 
John by Mr. Riddel himself, in the following 
letter, also printed there : — 

'Sir John — I enclose you a letter, 
written by Mr. Burns, as an additicm to the 
account of Dunscore parish. Tt contains an 
account of a small library which he was so 
good (at my desire) as to set on foot, in the 
barony of Monkland, or Friars Carse, in this 
parish. As its utility has been felt, par- 
ticularly among the younger class of people, 
I think that if a similar plan were established 
in the dift'erent parishes of Scotland, it would 
tend greatly to the speedy improvement 
of tiie tenantry, tradespeople, and work- 
people. Mr. Burns was so good as to take 
the whole charge of this small concern. He 
was treasurer, librarian, and censor, to this 
little society, who will long have a grateful 
sense of his public spirit and exertions for 
their improvement and information. I have 
the honour to be. Sir John, your's most 
sincerely, Robert Riddel." 

— CuRRiE. ISIr. Cunningham adds, that 
the minister of Dunscore probably omitted 
to notice the Monkland library scheme, 
from dislike to the kind of literature patro- 
nised by it. 

Page 358, Note 99.— It was Mr. 
William Dunljar, who had presented a copy 
of Spenser's Poems to Burns. 

Page 359, Note 100. — An allusion to a 
ballad, in which one of the ladies in waiting 
to Mary Ciueen of Scots, is described as 
having murdered her illegitimate child, and 
as having undergone capital punishment 
in consequence. The stanza here quoted 
are the supposed last expressions which 
escaped her at the moment of execution. 
Mary Queen of Scots had, however, curious 
enough, four attendants of the same Christian 
name as her own. 

Page 359, Note 101. — Francis, the 
second son of the poet, to whom Mrs. 
Duiilop had stood as godmother. 

Page 359, Note 102. — Burns here 
alludes to an unfortunate woman, whose 
laxity had exposed her to some excess of 
severity from the Magistrates of Edinburgh, 
in which Creech had been one of the most 
active persons. The treatment to which she 
had been subjected had been so severe, indeed, 
as to awaken general sympathy in her behalf. 

Page 360, Note 103. — Perhaps no set 
of men more effectually avail themselves of 
the easy credulity of the public, than a 
certain .iescription of Paternoster Row 
booksellers. Three hundred and odd 
engravings! — and by the first artists in 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



525 



London, too! — ^No wonder that Burns was 
dazzled by the splendour of the promise. It 
is no unusual thing for this class of im- 
postors to illustrate the Holy Scriptures by 
plates originally engraved for the History of 
England, and I have actually seen subjects 
designed by our celebiated artist Stotliard, 
from Clarissa Harlowe and the Novelist's 
Magazine, converted, with incredible dex- 
terity, by these bookselling Breslaws, into 
Scriptural embelhshments ! One of these 
venders of ' Family Bibles ' lately called on 
me, to consult me professionally about a folio 
engraving he brought with him. It repre- 
sented Mons. BufTon, seated, contemplating 
various groups of animals that surrounded 
him : he merely wished, he said, to be 
informed whether, by unclothing the natu- 
ralist, and giving hiin a rather more resolute 
look, the plate could not, at a trifling expense, 
be made to pass for ' Daniel in the Lions' 
Den ! ' " — C ro ii ek. 

P.\GE 3G1, Note 104.— This letter will 
be the better understood, when it is added 
that Burns had a very short time before 
received the subjoined letter from Mr. Cun- 
ningham : — • 

" 2Qth January, 1700. 

" In some instances it is reckoned unjiar- 
dunable to quote any one's own words ; but 
the value I have for your friendship, nothnig 
can more truly or more elegantly express than 

• Time but the impression stronger makes, 
As streams their channels deeper wear.' 

Having written to you twice without having 
heard from you, I am apt to think my letters 
have miscarried. My conjecture is only 
framed upon the chapter of accidents turning 
up against me, as it too often does, in the 
trivial, and I may with truth add, the more 
important affairs of life ; but I shall continue 
occasionally to inform you what is going on 
among the circle of your friends in these 
parts. In these days of merriment, I have 
frequently heard your name proclaimed at 
the jovial board, under the roof of our 
hospitable friend at Steiihouse-mills ; there 
were no 
' Lingering moments number'd with care.' 

I saw your ' Address to the New-year,' in 
the Dumfries Journal. Of your productions 
I shall say nothing ; but my acquaintances 
allege that when your name is mentioned, 
which every man of celebrity must know 
often happens, I am the champion, the 
Mendoza, against all snarling critics and 
narrow-minded reptiles, of whom a few on 
this planet do crawl. 



"With best compliments to your wife, and 
her black-eyed sister, 1 remain yours, &c." 

Page 3G2, Note 105.— A letter to Lady 
Harriet Don, quoted by Mr. Cunningham 
in his edition of Burns, shows that the poet 
was now contemplating dramatic compo- 
sition ; and, with that view, was anxious to 
study the best dramatic authors, English 
and French being the only languages with 
which he was acquainted. 

Page 3G.3, Note IOC— The subject of 
this paper being the existence of peculiar 
attachments between master and servants, 
and the anecdote of Albert Blane being 
aptly introduced at the close, as an illustra- 
tion of the writer's views. 

Page3G4, Note 107. — The sonnets of 
Charlotte Smith. 

Page 36.j, Note 108. — This letter was 
communicated to me, says Cromek, by a 
gentleman, to whose liberal advice and 
information I am much indebted, Mr. John 
Murdoch, the tutor of the poet, accompanied 
'l by the following interesting note : — 

"London, Hart-Street, Bloomsbury, 
December 28t/i, 1807. 
" Deah Sin, — The following letter, which 
I lately found among my papers, I copy for 
your perusal, partly because it is Burns's, 
partly because it makes honourable mention 
of my rational Christian friend, his father ; 
and likewise, because it is rather flattering 
to myself I glory in no one thing so much 
as an intimacy with good men : — the friend- 
ship of others reflects no honour. When 1 
recollect the pleasure (and I hope benefit) I 
received from the conversation of ^Villiam 
Burns, especially when on the Ijord's day we 
walked together for about two miles to the 
house of prayer, there publicly to adore and 
praise the Giver of all Good, 1 entertain an 
ardent hope that together we shall ' renew 
the glorious theme in distant worlds,' with 
powers more adequate to the mighty sub- 
ject — the exuberant beneficence of the great 
Creator. But to the letter : — 
[Here follows the letter relative to youn^ 
William Burns.] 
"I promised myself a deal of happiness in 
the conversation of my dear young friend ; 
but my promises of this nature generally 
prove fallacious. Two visits were the utmost 
that I received. At one of them, however, 
he repeated a lesson which I had given him 
about twenty years before, when he was a 
mere child, concerning the pity and tender- 
ness due to animals. To that lesson (which 
it seems was brought to the level of his 
capacity), he declared himself indebted for 



62i} 



NOTES TO THE 



almost all the pliilanlhrop) and general sym- 
pathy he possessed. 

"Let not parents and teachers imagine that 
it is needless to talk seriously to children. 
They are sooner fit to be reasoned with than 
is j;cnerally thought. Strong and indelible 
impressions are to be made before the mind 
be agitated and ruffled by the numerous 
train of distracting cares and unruly passions, 
whereby it is frequently rendered almost 
unsusceptible of the principles and precepts 
of rational religion and sound morality. 

" But I find myself digressing again. Poor 
William ! then in the bloom and vigour of 
youth, caught a putrid fever, and in a few days, 
as real chief mourner, I followed his remains 
to the land of forgetfuhiess. 
Cromek. "John Murdoch." 

Page 365, Note 109. — " The preceding 
letter to Mrs. Diuilop, explains the feelings 
under which tliis was written. The strain 
of indignant invective goes on some time 
longer m the style which our bard was too 
apt to indulge, and of which the reader has 
already seen so much." — Currie. 

Page 366, Note 110. — This fragment, 
first published by Cromek, is placed by him, 
and subsequent editors, under 1794, and by 
Mr. Cunningham is supposed to be addressed 
to Dr. Robert Anderson, the editor of the 
British Poets. We have little doubt that 
the gentleman addressed was Dr. James 
Anderson, a well-known agricultural and mis- 
cellaneous writer, and the editor of a 
weekly miscellany entitled "The Bee." This 
publication was commenced in Edinburgh, 
December, 1790, and concluded in January 
1794, when it formed eighteen volumes. 
Tlie above letter by Burns, from the allu- 
siou it makes to his extreme occupation by 
business, as well as from the bitterness 
of its tone, seems to have been written in 
the latter part of ] 790, immediately after the 
poet had commenced Exciseman ; it was an 
answer, probably, to an application for aid 
in the conduct of "The Bee," then about to 
be started. For these reasons, the present 
editor has shifted its place in the poet's 
correspondence. 

Page 367, Note 111. — Susan, one of 
Mrs. Dunlop's daughters, had married a 
French gentleman of rank and fortune, of 
the name of Henri, and this letter of the 
poet's was written to J\Irs. Dunlop, upon the 
receipt of intelligence that Madame Henri 
had given birth to a child some months after 
the death of the father, who liatj died in 
consequence of an inflammatory disease en- 
gendered by es[)osure to wet. M. Henri 
died on the 22nd of June, 1790, and liis 



Posthumous Child was born on the 4th of 
November in the same year. Both Mrs. 
Dunlop's daughter and her son-in-law were 
residing at Loudon Castle, in Ayrshire. 
The letter of Burns, enclosed also the lines 
entitled, " Stanzas on the Birthday of a 
Posthumus Child." In one of the following 
letters of Burns to IMrs. Dunlop, he alludes 
to the perilous situation of Madame Henri, 
who had been compelled to proceed to France, 
for the purpose of disposing of some family 
affairs of her deceased husband, just at the 
time when the most frightful excesses of the 
Revolution were being perpetrated. Madame 
Henri never returned to England, as she 
died not many months after her arrival in 
France. To this melancholy occurrence 
Burns again alludes in another letter to Mrs. 
Dunlop. Madame Henri had left her orphan 
child under the care of her deceased husband's 
father, M. Henri the elder ; but he being 
shortly afterwards compelled to take refuse 
in Switzerland, had been obliged to leave his 
grandchild behind him ; and no tidings were 
heard of this child until some years after- 
wards, when the grandfather was enabled to 
return to the enjoyment of his property. In 
the interim of time which had elapsed, the 
child had been reared by a person of the 
name of Susette, previously a female servant 
of the household of M. Henri the elder ; and 
she, though compelled to provide for her 
orphan charge at the cost of her own toil, 
had constantly observed all the delicate 
attentions which could possibly have been 
enjoyed, had his family been in the full 
enjoyment of their rank and possessions. 
This grandson of Mrs. Dunlop subsequently 
returned to Scotland for a short time, but 
continued to reside permanently at the 
chateau which he had inherited from his 
paternal grandfather ; and his faithful pre- 
server long survived to enjoy the grateful 
recompense of her fidelity. 

PAGii 368, Note 112.— One of the Super- 
visors-General of Excise. 

Page 368, Note 113.— :\Ir. Charles 
Sharpe, to whom this letter was addressed 
by Burns, was the father of the Charles 
Kirkpatrick Sharpe, the intimate friend of 
Sir Walter Scott, and the contributor of 
several very beautiful original ballads to the 
Border Minstrelsy. 

Page 369, Note 114. — Burns here 
alludes to a box or casket presented to him 
by Lady W. Constable, in the lid of which 
was a portrait of Mary Queen of Scots, 
supposed to have been original. Some years 
ago, according to Chambers, one of the sons 
of the poet, in leaping on board a vessel in 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



j-^' 



India, had the misfortune to break this box, 
and irreparably damage the portrait. 

Page 369, Note 115. — The President of 
the Convivial Club, called the Crochallan 
Fencibles, was otticially known by the desig- 
nation of -Colonel. 

Page 370, Note 116.— This letter was 
a reply to the subjoined letter from Mr. 
Tytler":— 

"Dear Sir — ^Ir. Hill yesterday put into 
my hands a sheet of 'Grose's Antiquities,' 
containing a poem of yours, entitled ' Tarn 
o' Shanter, a Tale.' The very high pleasure 
I have received from the perusal of this 
admirable piece, I feel, demands the warmest 
acknowledgments. Hill tells me he is to 
send off a packet for you this day ; I cannot 
resist, therefore, putting on paper what I 
must have told you in person, had I met 
with you after the recent perusal of your 
tale, which is, that 1 feel I owe you a debt, 
which, if undischarged, would reproach me 
with ingratitude. I have seldom in my life 
tasted of higher enjoyment from any work 
of genius, than I have received from this 
composition ; and I am much mistaken, if 
this poem alone, had yon never written 
another syllable, would not have been suffi- 
cient to have transmitted your name down 
to posterity with high reputation. In the 
introductory part, where you paint the 
character of your hero, and exhibit him at 
the alehouse ingle, with his tippling cronies, 
you have delineated nature with a humour 
and vdiveti that would do honour to 
Matthew Prior ; but when you describe the 
infernal orgies of the witches' Sabbath, and 
the hellish scenery iu which they are ex- 
hibited, you display a power of imagination 
that Shakespeare himself could not have 
exceeded. 1 know not that I have ever met 
with a picture of more horrible fancy than 
the fullowing : — 

' Coffins stood round like open presses, 
Tliat shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
And, by some devilish cantrip sleight, 
Each in his cauld hand held a light.' 

But when I came to the succeeding lines, 
ny blood ran cold within me : — 

' A knife, a father's throat had mangled. 
Whom his ain son of life bereft ; 
The (jrcij hairs yet slack to the heft.' 

"And here, after the two following lines, 
' Vi'V mair o' horrible and an-fu',' &c., the 
descriptive part might, perhaps, have been 
better closed, than the four lines which 
succeed, which, though good in themselves. 



yet, as they derive all their merit from the 
satire they contain, are here rather misplaced 
among the circumstances of pure horror. 
[The four lines were as follow : — 
' Three lawyers' tongues turned inside out, 
\Vi' lies seemed like a beggar's clout. 
And priests' hearts rotten, black as muck, 
Lay stinking, vile, in every neuk.' 

The poet expunged them, in obedience to 
the recommendation of ]Mr. Tytler.] 

"The initiation of the young witch is 
most happily described — the effect of her 
charms exhibited in the dance of Satan him- 
self — the apostrophe, 'Ah, little thought thy 
reverend grannie!' — the transport of Tarn, 
who forgets his situation, and enters com- 
pletely into the spirit of the scene — are all 
features of high merit in this excellent 
composition. 'Ihe only fault it possesses, 
is, that the winding up, or conclusion of the 
story, is not commensurate to the interest 
which is excited by the descriptive and 
characteristic painting of the preceding 
parts. The preparation is fine, but the 
result is not adequate. But for this, per- 
haps, you have a good apology — you stick to 
the popular tale. 

" And now that I have got out my mind, 
and feel a little relieved of the weiglit of 
that debt I owed you, let nie end this 
desultory scroll by an advice : — You have 
proved your talent for a species of composi- 
tion in which but a very few of our own 
poets have succeeded. Go on — write more 
tales in the same style — you will eclipse 
Prior and La Fontaine ; for, with equal wit, 
equal power of numbers, and equal na'iuete 
of expression, you have a bolder and more 
vigorous imagination." 

Page 370, Note 117. — This respectable 
and benevolent person, since Principal of 
the University of Edinburgh, had written to 
Burns, requesting his aid in revising Bruce's 
poems, and a contribution to swell the 
volume. It does not appear that the 
edition which subsequently appeared, con- 
tained any poem by Burns. 

Page 372, Note US.— This is the letter 
which Mr. Dngald Stewart, in his commu- 
nication to Dr. Currie respecting Burns 
(printed in the Memoir written by that 
gentleman), says he read with surprise, as 
evincing that the unlettered .\yrshire bard 
had formed "a distinct conception of the 
general principles of the doctrine of asso- 
cir#ion." (See the foregoing resume ol 
Dr. Currie's Memoir of Burns. The doe- 
trine here alluded to, is one peculiar, 
we believe, to the Scotch school of mela])hy 



46 



628 



NOTES TO THE 



sicians, and mainly consists in an assertion 
that our ideas of beauty in objects, of all 
kinds, arise from our associating with them 
some other ideas of an agreeable kind. For 
instance, our notion of beauty in the cheek 
of a pretty maiden arises from our notions 
of her health, innocence, and so forth ; our 
notion of the beauty of a Highland prospect, 
sucli as the Trosachs, from our notions of 
the romantic kind of life formerly led in it ; 
as if there were no female beauty inde- 
pendent of both health and innocence, or 
tine scenery where men had not formerly 
worn tartans and claymores. The whole of 
the above letter of Burns is, in reality 
{though, perhaps, unmeant by hitit), a satire 
on this doctrine, which, notwithstanding the 
eloquence of an Alison, a Stewart and a 
Jeffrey, must now be considered as amongst 
the dreams of philosophy. 

Page 374, Note 119. — "This gentleman, 
the factor, or steward of Buriis's noble 
friend. Lord Glencairn, with a view to en- 
courage a second edition of the poems, laid 
the volume before his lordship, with such an 
account of the rustic bard's situation and 
prospects, as from his slender acquaintance 
with him he could furnish. The result, as 
communicated to Burns by Mr. Dalzel, is 
highly creditable to the character of Lord 
Glencairn. After reading the book, his 
lordship declared that its merits greatly 
exceeded his expectation, and he took it with 
him, as a literary curiosity, to Edinburgh. 
He repeated his wishes to be of service to 
Burns, and desired Mr. Dalzel to inform 
him, that in patronising the book, ushering 
it with effect into the world, or treating with 
the booksellers, he would most willingly give 
every aid in his power ; adding his request, 
that Burns would take the earliest oppor- 
tunity of letting him know in what way or 
manner he could best further his interests." 
— Cromek. 

Page 374, Note 120.— The gist of this 
passage will be the better understood, when 
it is explained that Mrs. Burns's accouche- 
ment had occurred only two days before the 
date of this letter, that is, on the 9th of 
April. It was the birth of William Nicol 
Burns, to which this letter refers. This 
child was christened after Mr. W. N., the 
teacher in the High School, Edinburgh, and 
the warm friend of Burns. 

Page 374, Note 121. — An allusion to 
the grandson of Mrs. Dunlop, and son of M. 
and Madame Henri. For additional par- 
ticulars the reader is referred to the foregoing 
Note, number 111. 

Page 375, Note 122.— Dr. Robinion, 



who stood in the relationship of maternal 
uncle to Mr. Cunningham. 

Page 376, Note 123.— Lady E. Cun- 
ningham was the sister of Burns's best 
patron, the deceased Earl of Glencairn, as 
also of the existing nobleman (who had 
succeeded to his brother). Lady E. C. 
died in the mouth of August, 1604, un- 
married. 

Page 376, Note 124. — The accompanying 
poem enclosed in this letter, and to which 
Burns here alludes, was the "Lament; for 
James, Earl of Glencairn." 

Page 376, Note 125.— Colonel Fullarton 
is mentioned with praise and respect by 
Burns, in his poem of T/te Vision. This 
letter was first published in the year 1828, 
in the Paisley Magazine. 

Page 376, Note 120. — An allusion to 
eight-page song books, produced in the 
coarsest manner,andcontaiiiingequally coarse 
matter, usually heralded with tlie title of 
Six Excellent Songs for One Halfpenny, 
the price at which they were sold; and, 
secondly, to the Penny Almanacks published 
at Aberdeen. 

Page 377,Note 127.— Colonel FuUarton 
was a native of Ayrshire. 

Page 377, Note 128. — Mr. Cunningham, 
in his edition of Burns, gives a very interest- 
ing note respecting the " charming lovely 
Davies ;" from which we learn, that she was 
the youngest daughter of Dr. Davies, of 
Tenby, in Pembrokeshire, and a relative of 
the Riddels of Friars' Carse. She died 
young, under the distress of mind consequent 
on the neglect of a lover. 

Page 379, Note 129. — Grose, in the 
introduction to his " Antiquities of Scotland," 
acknowledges his obligations to Burns ia 
the following paragraph, some of the terms 
of which will scarcely fail to amuse the 
modern reader : — 

" To my ingenious friend, Mr. Robert 
Burns, I have been seriously obligated : he 
was not only at the pains of making out 
what was most worthy of notice in Ayrshire, 
the country honoured by his birth, but he 
also wrote, expressly for this work, the 
pretty tale annexed to AUoway Church : — " 

This " pretty tale " being " Tarn o' 
Slianter." 

Page 379, Note 130.— ^Mrs. Riddel, of 
Woodlee Park, near Dumfries. Her maiden 
name was Maria Woodlee, or Woodleigh, 
of V\'oodlee. Another Blrs. Riddel (she of 
Friars' Carse) was also a friend of Burns's. 

Page 379, Note 131.— The Philosophy 
of Natural History. 

Page 380, Note 132. — An allusion to an 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURXS. 



529 



admonitory letter received from W. Nicol, 
by Burns. 

Pagk 380, Note 133.— Mr. Nicol had 
purchased a small piece of ground, called 
Lagfran, on the Nith. There took place the 
bacchanalian scene which called forth "Willie 
Brewed a Peck o' Maut." 

Page 3S1, Note 134. — Tliis letter was 
communicated by j\Ir. Gilchrist, of Stamford, 
to Sir Eijerton Brydges, by whom it was 
published iu tlie Censura Literaria, in the 
year 17 96. 

Page 3S1, Note 135. — The lengthy cor- 
respondence which ensued between Mr. G. 
Thomson and Robert Burns, originated iu 
the circumstances referred to in the lirst and 
second letters. Mr. George Thomson, of 
Edinburgh, having designed a more than 
usually elegant collection of the national 
music of Scotland, applied to the poet for 
his aid in improving the songs, many of 
which were unworthy of publication. Burns, 
with that enthusiasm which he entertained 
on the subject of Scottish music, entered 
heartily into Mr. Thomson's views, and 
contributed about sixty songs to the work. 
The letters which passed between the poet 
and Jlr. Thomson are here given, as pre- 
pared for publication by the latter, and 
presented to the public in the volumes of 
Dr. Currie, wno prefaced them with the 
following note : — " The undertaking of Mr. 
Thomson is one on which the public may be 
congratulated in various points of view, not 
merely as having coUecteil the finest of the 
Scottish songs and airs of past times, but as 
having given occasion to a number of original 
songs of our bard, which equal or surpass 
the former efforts of the pastoral muses of 
Scotland, and which, if we mistake not, may 
be safely compared with the lyric poetry of 
any age or country. The letters of Mr. 
Burns to ilr. Thomson include the songs he 
presented to him, some of which appear in 
different stages of their progress; and these 
letters wdl be found to exhibit occasionally 
his notions of song-writing, and his opinions 
on various subjects of taste and criticism. 
Tbese opinions, it will be observed, were 
called forth by the observations of his 
c;)rrespoi'.;lent, Mr. Thomson ; and without 
the Utters of this gentlemen, those of Burns 
would have been often unintelligible. He 
has, therefore, yielded to the earnest request 
of the trustees of the family of the poet, to 
iulfer tliem to appear in their natural order; 
and, independently of the illustration they 
give to the letters of our bard, it is not to be 
doubted that their intrinsic merit will ensure 
tlieni a reception from the public, far beyoud 

M M 



what jNIr. Thomson's modesty would peiui«( 
him to suppose." 

i\lr. George Thomson was born at Lime- 
kilns, in Fife, about the year 1759, and 
educated at Banff, his father being a 
schoolmaster successively at these two 
places. Through the recommendation of 
Jlr. Home, the author of " Douglas," he was 
admitted, in 1780, to the office of the Board 
of Trustees for the Encouragement of M.inu- 
factures in Scotland, as their junior clerk : 
and he is now (1838), after a service of 
fifty-eight years, principal clerk to the Board. 
His natural taste for music was cultivated, 
in his early years, at the meetings of the St. 
Cecilia Society in Edinburgh — an amateur 
body, whose performances used to attract no 
inconsiderable share of notice in those days. 
Mr. 'i'hoinson's Collection of Scottish Airs, 
first designed about 1792, was not completed 
for many years : it has been, in fact, tlie 
employment of the leisure hours of the 
better part of his life. 

Mr. Thomson's work is entitled, "A 
Select Collection of Original Scottish Airs 
for the Voice : to which are added. Intro- 
ductory and Concluding Symphonies and 
Accompaniments for the Piano Forte and 
Violin, by Pleyel and Kozeluch ; with Select 
and characteristic Verses, by the most 
admired Scottish Poets," &c. London: 
Printed and sold by Preston, No. 97, Strand. 
It has been completed in five volumes — one 
edition being in folio, and another in Svo. 

Page 385, Note 136. — We have been 
informed that Burns marked his loathing of 
remuneration, by the use of even a stronger 
term than this, which was substituted by 
the original editor. 

Page 390, Note 137. — The Commis- 
sioncrs of the Scottish Board of Excise 
were, at this time, George Brown, Thomas 
Wharton, James Stodart, Robert Graham 
(of Fintry), and John Grieve, Esqrs. 

Page 391, Note 133. — "The following 
extract from a letter addressed by Mr. 
Bloomfield to the Earl of Buchan, contains 
so interesting an exhibition of the modesty 
inherent in real worth, and so philosophical, 
and at the same time, so poetical an esti- 
mate of the different characters and destinies 
of Burns and its author, that I should 
esteem myself culpable were I to withhold 
it from the public view. 

"' The illustrious soul that hasleft amongst 
U3 the name of Burns, has often been 
lowered down to a comparison with me ; 
but the comparison exists more in cir- 
cumstances than in essentials. That man 
stood up with the stamp of superior intellect 



630 



KOTES TO THE 



on his brow ; a visible ^eatness : and g:reat 
and patriotic subjects would only have called 
into action the powers of his mind, which 
lay inactive while he played calmly and ex- 
quisitely the pastoral pipe. 

" ' The letters to which I hnve alluded in 
my Preface to the " Rural Tales," were 
friendly warnings, pointed with immediate 
reference to the fate of that extraordinary 
man. " Remember Burns " has been the 
watchword of ray friends. I do remember 
Burns ; but I am not Burns ! neither have 
I his fire to fan or to quench, nor passions 
to control 1 Where, then, is my merit, if I 
make a peaceful voyage on a smooth sea, 
and with no mutiny on board? To a lady 
(I have it from herself) who remonstrated 
with him on his danger from drink, and the 
pursuits of some of his associates, he 
replied : — " Madam, they would not thank 
me for my company, if I did not drink with 
them. I 7mist give them a slice of my con- 
stitution." How much is it not to be regretted 
that he did not give them thinner slices of 
his constitution, that it might have lasted 
longer.' " — Cromek. 

Page 391, Note 139.— This letter is 
correctly dated, according to Chambers's 
arrangement, m the year 1793. The allusions 
to the untoward influence of his political 
opirdons on his Excise promotion, which it 
contains, sufficiently identify it as having 
been written in this year. And in that 
respect I fully agree with Mr. Chambers, in 
opposition to Dr. Currie, who has attributed 
it to the year 1792 in his own arrange- 
ment. 

Page 391, Note 140.— At the head of 
this letter was a transcribed copy of the two 
songs, " Puirtith Cauld " and " Gala Water," 
which will respectively be found in the 
foregoing part of this volume, amongst the 
poems. 

P.VGE 392, Note 141.— Third son of 
Alexander, fifth Earl of Kellie, by Janet, 
daughter of the celebrated physician and 
wit, Dr. Pitcairn. Mr. Erskine was a wit 
and a poet, and the author, in part of a 
curious and rare volume, entitled "Letters 
between the Hon. Andrew Erskine and 
James Boswell, Esq., London, 17(53" — an 
amusing specimen of youthful frolic and 
vivacity. Mr. E. died in 1793. 

Page 393, Note 142. — The song of 
Dr. Walcot (Peter Pindar), ou the same 
subject, is as follows : — 
"Ah ope. Lord Gregory, thy door! 

A midnight wanderer sighs ; 
Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar. 

And lightnings cleave the skies." 



" Who comes with woe at this drear night— 

A pilgrim of the gloom ? 
If she whose love did once delight. 

My cot shall yield her room." 

" Alas I thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn. 

That once was prized by thee ; 
Think of the ring by yonder burn, 

Thou gav'st to love and me." 

"But should'st thou not poor Marion know, 

I'll turn my feet and part ; 
And think the storms that round me blov. 

Far kinder than thy heart." 

"It is but doing justice to Dr. Walcot to 
mention that his song is purely originil. 
Mr. Burns saw it, liked it, and immediately 
wrote the other on the same subject, which 
is derived from an old Scottish ballad ot 
uncertain origin." — Currie. 

Page 393, Note 143. — In closing this 
letter. Burns here transcribed and appended 
his own ballad of " Lord Gregory," as it 
stands in the text, now amongst the poems, 
and as it was published in Mr. Thomson' a 
collection. 

Page 393, Note 144.— This letfer bears 
date subsequently to the marriage of Robert 
Burns. 

Page 394, Note 145.— The following 
recent account of Clarinda, written in Feb. 
1837, appears in a note, to the Memoir of 
Lord Craig, in "Kay's Eilinburgii Portraits," 
and will be read with interest by all admirers 
of the poet : — " It may, perhaps, be worthy 
of notice that Lord Craig was cousin-germaii 
of Mrs. M'Lehose, the celebrated Clarinda 
of Burns, who is still living in Edinburgh, and 
was left an annuity by his lordship. She is now 
nearly eighty years of age, but enjoys ex- 
cellent health. We found her sitting in the 
parlour, with some papers on the table. Her 
appearance, at first, betrayed a little of that 
langour and apathy which attend age and 
solitude ; but the moment she comprehended 
the object of our visit, her countenance, 
which even yet retains the lineaments of 
what Clarinda may be supposed to have 
bee;i, became animated and intelligent. 
' That,' said she, rising up and pointing to 
an engraving over the mantel-piece, ' is a 
likeness of my relative (Lord Craig), about 
whom you have been inquiring. He was 
the best friend I ever had! After a little 
conversation about his Lordship, she directed 
our attention to a picture of Burns, by 
Ilorsburgh, after Taylor, on the opposite wall 
of the apartment. ' You well know who 
thit is — it was presented to me by Constable 
and Co., for having simply declared what I 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



631 



\ 



knew to be trap, that the likeness was good.' 
AVe spoke of the correspondence betwixt the 
poet and Clariuda, at which she smiled, and 
pleasantly remarked on the great change 
which the lapse of so many years had pro- 
duced on her personal appearance. Indeed, 
atiy observation respecting Burns seemed to 
afford her pleasure ; and she laughed at a 
little anecdote we told of him, which she had 
never before heard. 

" Having prolonged our intrusion to the 
limits of courtesy, and conversed on various 
topics, we took leave of the venerable lady, 
highly gratitied by the interview." 

Page 394, Note 14G. — A seal with these 
fanciful bearings was actually cut for the 
poet, and used by him for the remainder of 
his life. Its impression is represented under 
a profile of the poet, in Mr. Cunnhigham's 
edition of Burns, vol. vui., p. 168. 

Page 394, Note 147. — The poet here 
alludes to David Allan, painter, usually 
called the Scottish Hogarth. He was born 
at Alloa, in 1744, and educated through the 
kindness of some generous ladies. His 
serious paintings are not much admired; but 
he had a happy knack at hitting off Scottish 
rustic figures. At his death in 1796, he left 
a series of drawings illustrative of Burns'a 
works. 

Page 395, Note 148. — An old song, 
comnieticing with the two following stanzas : 
"Here awa, there awa, here awa Willie, 

Here awa, there awa, here awa hame ; 
Lang have I sought thee, dear have I bought 

thee. 
Now I hae gotten my Willie again. 

Throuirh the lang muir I have followed my 
AVillie, 

Through the lang muir I have followed 
him liauie, 
\A"liatever betide us, nought shall divide us. 

Love now rewards all my sorrow and pain." 

Page 393, Note 149.— In Dr. Currie's 
edition of Burns's works, there precede two 
additional letters before this one ; but as 
tlieje consist absolutely and entirely of 
transcripts of the two songs " Oh open the 
Door to Me, O ! " and " Jessie," respectively, 
it will sufHce simply to refer the reader to 
those songs, as they will be found amongst 
the poems; and to add, that they were 
written for, and first published, iu Mr. 
Thomson's collection. 

Page 396, Note 150.— " Wandering 
Willie," as altered by Mr. Erskine and Mr. 
Thomson. 
" Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 

Here awa, there awa, baud awa hame ; 



Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie. 
Tell me thou bring'st my Willie the same. 

Winter winds blew loud and caul' at ouf 
parting. 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my ee. 
Welcome now simmer, and welcome my 
Willie, 
As simmer to nature, so Willie to me. 

Rest ye wild storms in the cave o' your 

slumbers. 
How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
Blow soft ye breezes ! roll gently ye bill nvs ! 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my 
arms." 

Page 396, Note 151.— The next com- 
munication of Burns to Mr. Thoinson, 
(namely, that which intervenes between let- 
ters No. 202 and 263,) marked No. XVIIL 
in Currie's publication of their correspond- 
ence, consisted merely of the songs, " The 
Soldier's Return," and " Meg o' the Mill," 
respectively, to be found in the accompanying 
edition of Burns's Poetical Works. 

Page 396, Note 152. — " Burns here calls 
himself the 'Voice of Coila,' in imitation 
of Ossian, who denominates himself the 
' Voice of Cona.' ' Sae merry as we a' hae 
been ! ' and " Good night, and joy be wi' 
you a' ! ' are the names of two Scottish 
tunes." — CuRRiE. 

Page 396, Note 153.— " Several of the 
alterations seem to be of little importance in 
themselves, and were adopted, it may be 
presumed, for the sake of suiting the words 
better to the music. The Homeric epithet 
for the sea, darlc-heaviwj, suggested by Mr. 
Erskine, is in itself more beautiful, as well, 
perhaps, as more sublime, than, wide-roaring, 
which he has retained ; but, as it is only 
applicable to a placid state of the sea, or. at 
most, to the swell left on its surface after 
the storm is over, it gives a picture of that 
element not so well adapted to the ideas of 
eternal separation, which the fair mourner is 
supposed to deprecate. From the original 
song of ' Here awa, Willie,' Burns has bor- 
rowed nothiii? but the second line and part 
of the first. The superior excellence of this 
beautiful poem will, it is hoped, justify 
the different editions of it which we hav# 
given." — CURRIE. 

Page 397, Note 154. — This was subse- 
quently effected to the mutual satisfaction 
both of Burns and of Mr. Thomson, and 
will be gathered from the poems in question, 
as printed in the foregoing part of this 
volume. 

Page 397, Note 155. — " Mr. Thomson, it 



40^ 



632 



NOTES TO THE 



appears, Jid not approve of this song, even 
in ics altered state. It does not appear in 
the correspondence ; but it is probably one 
to be found in his manuscripts, beginning 

Yestreen I got a pint of wine 
A place where body saw na, 

Yestreen lay on tliis breast of mine. 
The gowden locks of Anna. 

It is highly characteristic of our bard, but 
the sirani of sentiment does not correspond 
with the air to which he proposes it should 
be allied." — Currie. 

P.\GE 397, Note 156. — Alluding to the 
time when he held the farm of EUisland, as 
tenant to Jlr. Miller. 

Page 397, Note 157. — This gentleman 
most obligingly favoured the editor with a 
perfect copy of the original letter, and 
alioued hun to lay it before the public. It 
is partly printed in Dr. Carrie's edition. — 
Chambers. 

" it will be necessary to state, that in con- 
seq\ipiice of the poet's freedom of remark on 
public measures, maliciously misrenresented 
to tlie lioard of Excise, he was lepresented 
as actually dismissed from his oihce. This 
re])ort induced Mr. Erskine to propose a 
subscription in his favour, which was refused 
by the poet with that elevation of sentiment 
that pectdiarly characterised his mind, and 
which is so happily displayed in this letter. 
See letter to R. Graham of Fiutry, December 
1792, written by Burns, with even more 
tlian his accustomed pathos and eloquence, 
in further explanation." — Cromek. Mr. 
Erskiiie, of JMar, at all times of his life a 
uoted Whig, became Earl of Mar, in 1824, 
in consequence of the reversal of his grand- 
father's attainder. He died August 20, 
1825, aged eighty-four. 

Page 399, Note 158.— "The original 
letter from ilr. Thomson contains many 
observations on the Scottish songs, and on 
the manner of adapting the words to the 
music, which, at his desire, are suppressed. 
The subsequent letter of Mr. Burns refers to 
several of these observations." — Currie. 

Page 399, Note 159. — "The reader has 
already seen that Burns did not finally adopt 
all of Mr. Erskine's alterations." — Currie. 

Pag 400, Note IGO.— " The song to the 
tune of • Bonnie Dundee ' is that named 
•Jessie.' The ballad of the 'Mill, Mill O !' 
is that beginning, ' When wild war's deadly 
blasts are blawn.'" — Currie. 

Page 400, Note 161. — Lugs, a Scottish 
popular terra for ears. i 

Page 400, Note 162.— The song here 
meutioucd, is that published in Number xviii ! 



of the ScoVs Musical Museum and of which 
the first line runs thus : — 

Oh ken ye what Meg 0' the Mill hai 
gotten. 

"This song," says Mr. Thomson, in an 
original note, " is surely Mr. Burns's own 
writing, though he does not generally praise 
his own songs so much." 

Page 400, Note 163.— The air here 
mentioned, is that for which he wrote the 
ballad of Bonnie Jean. 

Page 400, Note 164.— The original 
version of the song enclosed with this letter, 
ditfered somewhat materially from the 
present version in the text. 

Page 402, Note 105. — " The lines were 
the third and fourth : — 

W'l' mony a sweet babe fatherless. 
And mony a widow mourning. 

As our poet had maintained a long silence, 
and the first number of Mr. Thomson's 
musical work was in the press, this gentleman 
ventured, by Mr. Erskine's advice, to sub- 
stitute for them in that publication, 

'And eyes again with pleasure beam'd 
That had been bleared with mourning.' 

Though better suited to the music, these 
lines are inferior to the original. This is 
the only alteration adopted by Mr. Thomson, 
which Burns did not approve, or at least 
assent to." — Currie. 

Page 403, Note 166. — A remittance of 
five pounds. 

Page404, Note 167. — Katherine Ruther- 
ford, of Fernilee, in the county of Selkirk, 
who married Mr. Patrick Cockburn. — She 
died full of years in 1794. 

Page 406, Note 163.— "Gloamin'— twi- 
light, probably from glooming. A beautiful 
poetic word, which ought to be adopted in 
England. A gloamin'-shot, a twilight inter- 
view." — Currie. 

Page 406, Note 169. — The poet inserts 
the song of " Dainty Davie," which it seems 
to have been the purpose of this letter to 
communicate. Burns had previously com- 
municated, for Johnson's Museum, a song 
nearly the same, the stanzas of which conclude 
with the awkward expression, "The gardener 
wi' his paiJle," and to which he makes 
allusion in the brief prose text of this epistle. 

Page 406, Note 170.— This Miss Craik 
was the daughter of Mr. Craik of Arbiglaud, 
in the Stewartry of Kircudbright. 

Page 407, Note 171. — The dowager 
Lady Glencairn, widow of William, thirteenth 
Earl of Glencairn, and, consequently, nother 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



6S3 



of James, the fourteenth Earl, and Burns's 
best patron. 

Page 407, Note 172. — Lady Harriet 
Don was the daiifrhter of the Dowaijer 
Countess of Glencairn, and sister to James, 
fourteenth Earl of Glencairn. The little 
aiir/el to whom Burns alhules, was the 
L)()\vaser Countess's grandson, then a chikl, 
and afterwards better known for his urbanity 
and accomplishments, as Sir Alexander Don, 
of Newton Don. 

Page 410, Note 173. — "Mr. Thomson's 
list of songs for his publication. In his 
remarks the bard proceeds in order, and 
goes tliroujch the w hole ; but on many of 
them he merely signitics his approl)ation. 
All his remarks of any importance are pre- 
sented to tiie reader." — Currie. 

Page 410, Note 174 — "This alteration 
Mr. Thomson has adopted (or at least 
intended to adopt), instead of the last stanza 
of the original song, which is objectionable 
in point of delicacy." — Currie. 

]?age 411, Note 175. — It is very sur- 
prising that Burns should have thought it 
necessary to substitute new verses for the 
oUl song to this air, which is one of the 
most exquisite effusions of genuine natural 
sentiment in the whole range of Scottish 
lyrical poetry. Its merit is now fully appre- 
ciated, while Burns's substituted song is never 
sung. 

Page 411, Note 176.— The song to 
which Burns here alludes, is one of wliieh he 
afterwards sent a perfected copy, and wliich 
was published in Mr. Thomson's collection. 
The first line runs thus : — 

^Miere are the joys I hae met in the 
morning ? 

This song, however, was by no means so 
successful as the majority of his compositions, 
and the original words, to the same tune for 
which he had intended to adapt them, have 
outlived his newer version, and still continue 
to retain their former popularity and prefer- 
ence. Indeed, they are actually more spirited, 
and possess more essentially poetical spirit, 
than the lines supplied by Burns. 

Page 412, Note 177. — "Mr. Thomson 
has very properly adopted this song (if it 
may be so called) as the bard presented it to 
him. He has attached it to the air of 
' Lewie Gordon,' and, perhaps, among the 
existing airs he could not find a better ; but 
the poetry is suited to a much higher strain 
of music, and may employ the genius of some 
Scottish Handel, if any such should in future 
arise. The reader will have observed, that 
Burus adopted the alterations proposed by 



his friend and correspondent m former in- 
stances, with great readiness ; perhaps, 
indeed, on all indifferent occasions. In the 
present instance, however, he rejected them, 
thon;,'h repeatedly urged, with determined 
resolution. With every respect for the 
judgment of Mr. Thomson and his friends, 
we may be satisfied that he did so. He, 
who in preparing for an engagement, at- 
tempts to withdraw his imagination from 
images of death, will probably have but 
imperfect success, and is not fitted to stand 
in the ranks of batfle, where the liberties of 
a kingdom are at issue. Of such men the 
conquerors of Bannockburn were not com- 
posed. Bruce's troops were inured to war, 
and familiar with all its sufferings ami 
dangers. On the eve of that memorable 
day, their spirits were, without doubt, wound 
up to a pitch of enthusiasm suited to the 
occasion : a pitch of enthusiasm, at which 
danger becomes attractive, and the m.ist 
terrific forms of death are no longer terrible. 
Such a strain of sentiment this heroic ' wel- 
come ' may be supposed well calculated to 
elevate — to raise their hearts high above 
fear, and to nerve their arms to the utmost 
pitch of mortal exertion. These observations 
might be illustrated and supported by a 
reference to the martial poetry of all na- 
tions, from the spirit-stirring strains of 
Tyrtreus, to the war-song of General Wolfe, 
Sir. Thomson's observation, that ' Welcome 
to your gory bed,' is a discouraging address, 
seems not sufficiently considered. Perhaps, 
indeed, it may be aamitted, that the term 
gory is somewhat objectionable, not on ac- 
count of its presenting a frightful, but a dis- 
agreeable image to the mind. But a great 
poet, uttering his conceptions on an interest- 
ing occasion, seeks always to present a 
picture that is vivid, and is iiniforinly disposed 
to sacrifice the delicacies of taste on the altar 
of the imagination. And it is the privilege 
of superior genius, by producing a new 
association, to elevate expressicms that were 
originally low, and thus to triumph over the 
deficiencies of language. In how many 
instances might this be exemplified from the 
works of our immortal Shakespeare : — 

'Who would /nrrfe/s bear. 
To groan and sweat under a weary life — ■ 
Whfu he himself might his quietus make 
With a bare bodkin f 

It were easy to enlarge, but to suggest such 
reflections is probably sutlicient.'' — Currie. 
Page 413, Note 17S. — Burns here 
alludes to the melancholy death of the 
Honourable A. Erskine, respecting which 



534 



NOTES TO THE 



Thomson had written the poet a most fechng 
letter. Thomson, from a mistaken sense of 
dehcacy, withheld this letter, when it subse- 
quently fell into his hands. 

Page 413, Note 179.— This Mr. Gavin 
Turnbull had, in 1788, published a volume 
of poems, entitled Poetical Essays. The 
work was published at Glasn;ow, and enjoyed 
even very little of its ephemeral admiration. 
It soon sunk into oblivion. The pieces which 
Burns himself quotes at full length in this 
letter, are really very inadequate to the bril- 
liant eulogy with which he accompanies 
them. And it would seem as if his prejudice 
in favour of an old acquaintance had blinded 
his better judgment and taste ; for he was 
very rarely guilty of such misprisions. 

Page 414, Note 180. — In Dr. Currie's 
edition is inserted a letter from Burns to 
Thimison immediately following this, and 
before the next which I have adopted of the 
letters of Mr. Thomson. As the letter, No. 
49, in Dr. Currie's edition, however, con- 
sisted merely of transcripts of the songs 
"Wilt thou be my Dearie, 01" and "Husband, 
husband, cease your strife," both of which 
are inserted amongst the poems, I did not 
think it necessary to re-insert them in the 
form of a letter. The two songs in question, 
however, are thus identified as having been 
written especially for Mr. Thomson's col- 
lection. 

Page 415, Note 181. — Burns here 
alludes to the well-worn Scottish bank notes. 

Page 415, Note 182. — A present, con- 
sisting of the edition of his own poems, as 
published ill 1793, which were despatched 
by Burns with this letter. 

Page 415, Note 183. — It has been sup- 
posed that this letter was addressed to 
Captain Robertson, of Lude. 

Page 415, Note 184. — Bruce's address 
to his tfoops before the Battle of Ban- 
nockbnrn : — 

Scot's wha hae wi' Wallace bled. 

Page 416, Note 185,— "The lady to 
whom the bard has so happily and justly 
applied the quotation in this letter, paid the 
debt of nature a few months ago. The 
graces of her person were only equalled by 
tlie singular endowments of her mind ; and 
her poetical talents rendered her an interesting 
friend to Burns, in a part of the world where 
he was, in a great measure, excluded from 
tlie sweet intercourse of literary society." — 
Gilbert Burns, 1820. 

Page 416, Note 186. — Bruce's address 
to his troops before the Battle of Ban- 
uockburn : — 



Scot's wha hae w? Wallace bled. 

Page 416, Note 187. — The same as 
stated in the foregoing Note, number 186. 

Page 418, Note 188.— This gentleman 
held the office of Distributor of Stamps at 
Dumfries. Burns, who at first lived in the 
floor above his office, formed an intimacy 
with him, which lasted till the death of the 
poet. Mr. Syme was an agreeable table 
companion, and possessed considerable wit, 
the effusions of which were sometimes mis- 
taken for Buriis's. He died at his house of 
Ryedale, near Dumfries, November 24, 1831, 
iu his seventy-seventh year. 

Page 418, Note 189. — Burns here 
alludes to the song, of which the first line 
runs thus : — ■ 

Oh wat ye what's in yon town. 

And which was composed in honour of Mrs. 
Oswald, of Auchincruive. 

Page 421, Note 190.— Mr. David Mac- 
culloch is no longer living. One of his 
sisters, subsequently to the date of this 
letter, married IMr. Thomas Scott, brother 
to Sir Walter Scott. 

Page 422, Note 191. — Dr. Currie objects 
to the expression " ruffian feeling." He sug- 
gests that the word "ruder" would have 
possessed more euphony, and been more in 
keeping with the tenderness of the piece. 
I do not exactly agree in his criticism, nor 
do I think that the expression in the text is 
too " rugged an epithet " for the sense which 
Burns evidently intended to convey. It is 
one of the essential beauties of the poetry of 
Burns, that he seems almost invariably to 
have hit, as if by intuition, upon the most 
apt, appropriate, and positive expression 
whereby to convey the particular sentiment 
which he sought to communicate. He rarely 
says too much, and as rarely too little : a 
merit which has not been attributable to 
many of our most polished poets, and of 
which Shakepeare is the only pure example 
in English literature. 

Page 423, Note 192.— "This Virgilian 
order of the poet should, I think, be dis- 
obeyed with respect to the song in question, 
the second stanza excepted." — Note by 
Mr. Thomson. 

" Doctors differ. The objection to the second 
stanza does not strike the editor." — Currie. 

Page 425, Note 193.;— Our bard had 
before received the same advice, and so far 
took it into consideration, as to have cast 
about for a subject. 

Page 426, Note 194. — This, as well aa 
other poems to which he alludes iu this 



f 



COURESPOXUEXCE OF BUllXS. 



£35 



fetter, had previously been published l)y Mr. 
Joluisnn ill the Scots' Musical Mii eiin, and 
Mr. Thomson, suspecting the authorship, 
had uiquired of Burns if they were his cora- 
positioti. 

Page 426, Note 193. — The name of a 
mountain in the north. 

Page 42(i, Note 196. — "The reader will 
be curious to sec this poem, so highly praised 
by Burus. He it is : — 

' Keen blaws the wind o'er Doiniocht-Head, 

The snaw drives snelly througli the dale. 
The gaberlunzie tirls my sneck, 

And, shivering, tells his waefu' tale. 
"Cauld is the night, oh, let me in. 

And dinna let your minstrel fa'. 
And dinna let his winding-sheet 

Be naething but a wreath o' snaw. 

" Full ninety winters hae I seen. 

And pip'd where gor-cocks whirring flew. 
And mony a day I've dauc'd, I ween. 

To lilts which from my drone I blew." 
My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cried, 

'■' Get up guidman, and let him in ; 
For weel ye ken the winter night 

Was short when he began his din." 
My Eppie's voice, oh wow it's sweet. 

Even though she bans and scaulds a wee; 
But when it's tuu'd to sorrow's tale. 

Oh, haith, it's doubly dear to me ! 
" Come in, auld carl, I'll steer ray fire, 

I'll make it bleeze a bonny flame ; 
Your bluid is thin, ye've tint the gate. 

Ye should na stray sae far frae hame." 

"Nae hame have I," the minstrel said. 
Sad party-strife o'erturned my ha' ; 

And, weeping at the eve of life, 

I wander through a wreath o' snaw." ' 

" This afTecting poem is apparently incom- 
plete. The autlior need not be ashamed to 
own himself. It is worthy of Burns, or of 
Macneill." — CuRiiiE. [It was written by a 
gentleman of Newcastle, named Pickering.] 

Page 426, Note 197. — Jlr. Ritson, who 
had published a collection of Scottish songs 
iu London. 

Page 427, Note 193.— "Variation :— 

Now to the streaming fountain. 

Or up tlie heathy mountain, [stray; 
The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly-wanton 

In twilling hazel bowers 

Ills lay the linnet pours; 

The lav'rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, [day. 

While the sun and thou arise to bless the 

'\\Tien frae my Chloris parted. 
Sad, cheerless, brokeuheartedi. 



The night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, 
o'ercast ray sky. 

But when she charms my sight. 

In pride of beauty's light; 

When throUi;li my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart ; 
'Tis then, 'tis then I wake to life and joy !" 

— CURRIE. 

Page 428, Note 199.— Burns here alludes 
to Mrs. \Vhelpdale, whose maiden name, Jean 
Lorimer, is more familiar to our readi-rs. 

Page 428, Note 200.— Mr. Thomson 
must have completely misunderstood tiie 
character of this old song. It is a most 
romantic one, clothed in the mo^t poeticid 
language. 

Page 428, Note 201.— "See the song, 
in its first and best dress. Our bard 
remarks upon it: — 'I could easily throw 
this into an English mould; but, to my 
taste, in the simple and the tender of the 
pastoral song, a sprinkling of the old Scottisii 
has an inimitable effect.' " — Currie. 

Page 43I,Note 202. — "In a conversation 
with his friend JMr. Perry (the proprietor ot 
The Morning Chronicle), Mr. Miller re- 
presented to that gentleman the insufficiency 
of Burns's salary to answer the imperious 
demands of a numerous family. In their 
sympathy for his misfortunes, and in their 
regret that his talents were nearly lost to 
the world of letters, these gentlemen agreed 
on the plan of settling him in London. To 
accomplish this most desirable object, JMr. 
I'erry, very spiritedly, made the poet a hand- 
some otfer of an annual stipend for the 
exercise of his talents in his newspaper. 
Burns's reasons for refusing this otter are 
stated in the present letter." — Cromek. 

Page 432, Note 203. — In Burns's next 
communication to Mr. Thomson, marked 
No. LXIX, in Currie's series of their cor- 
respondence, he merely transcribes the 
compound song, inserted in his Poetical 
Works, under the title of " Oh lassie, 
art thou sleeping yet?" and adds, "1 do 
not kno-.v whether it will do." 

Page 433, Note 204. — Dr. Currie waa 
horn in t.hf neighbourhood of Ecclefechaii, 
ana with tne characteristic prejudice in 
favour of his native village, he states, that 
Burns must have been exceedingly tipsy to 
have so maligned the place. 

Page 433, Note 203. — At the head of 
this letter. Burns had inserted a copy of the 
song, entitled an "Address to the Wood- 
lark," to which he alludes in the first two 
lines. 

Page 434, Note 206. — Two verses of 
tliis song have been given to the public : — 



636 



^'UTES TO THE 



And now your banks and bonnie braes 

But waken sad remembrance smart; 
Tlie very shades I held most dear 

Now strike fresh anguish to my heart ; 
Deserted bower ! where are they "now — 

Ah ! wliere the garlands that' I wove 
^Vith faithful care, each morn to deck 

The altars of ungrateful love ? 

The flowers of spring, how gay they bloomed 

When last with hun I wandered here! 
The flowers of spring are passed away 

For wintry horrors dark and drear. 
Yon osier'd stream, by whose lone banks 

My songs have lulled him oft to rest. 
Is now in icy fetters locked — 

Cold as my false love's frozen breast. 

Page 434, Note 207.— Mr. Heron is 
sometimes, indeed frequently, spoken of as 
Mr. Heron of Kerrourjhtiee. His proper 
designation, however, was Heron of Heron 

Page 434, Note 208.— These ballads, 
which related to Mr. Heron's contest for the 
representation of the Stewartry of Kirkcud- 
bright, will be found amongst the poems in 
the former portion of this work. 

Page 435, Note 209.— Burns here 
alludes to the liues which open as follow : — 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour. 

And which had been composed especially for 
Miss Fontenelle. The lines will be found at 
length amongst the poems. 

Page 435, Note 210.— The pieces to 
which this letter referred, formed the intro- 
duction to the letter itself. Burns having 
transcribed them at length. They were 
those which respectively begin " How cruel 
are the parents," and " Mark yonder pomp 
of costly fashion." 

Page 437, Note 211.— The song to 
which Burns here alludes, and a copy of 
which headed the letter, was that of which 
the initiatory line runs thus : — 

Forlorn my love, no comfort near. 

Page 437, Note 212.— The lines to which 
Burns here refers, and which be had tran- 
scribed at the head of his letter, are those 
which commence respectively as follows : 

Last ]\Iay, a braw woer. 
And, 

Why, why tell thy lover. 

Page 438, Note 213.— This gentleman 
has since resided at Glasgow in retirement • 
1833. 

Page 439, Note 214.—" This letter owes 
Hs origin to the following circumstance : — A 



neighbour of the poet's at Dumfries called 
on hiin, and comi)laiued that he had been 
greatly disappointed in the irregular delivery 
of the paper, of The Monuu^j Chronicle 
Burns asked, ' W by do not you write to the 
editors of the paper ? ' ' Good God, Sir, can 
/ presume to write to the learned editors of 
a newspaper ? ■ ' \Vell, if you are afraid of 
writing to the editors of a newspaper, / am 
not; and, if you think proper, I'll draw up a 
sketch of a letter which you may copy.' 

Burns tore a leaf from his Excise bink, 
and instantly produced the sketch which 1 
have transcribed, and which is here printed. 
The poor man thanked him, and took the 
letter home. However, thai caution which 
the watchfulness of his enemies had taught 
him to exercise, prompted him to the pru- 
dence of begging a friend to wait on the 
person for whom it was written, and request 
the favour to have it returned. This request 
was complied with, and the paper never ap- 
peareil in print."— Cromek. 

Page 440, Note 215.— The novel en- 
titled " Edward." 

Page 441, Note 216.— The request 
conveyed ui this letter was immediately com- 
piled with. 

Page 442, Note 217.— The child died 
suddenly at Mauchline, and Burns was 
unable to see her at the last. 

Page 442, Note 218.— No subsequent 
explanation was received by Mr. Thomson, 
of the name which should be substituted for 
Chloris in these poems, and in the midst of 
this work which created such general inte- 
rest, it was arrested by the last and fatal 
illness of the poet. 

Page 443, Note 219.— His proposed re- 
visal was prevented by the untimely death 
of the poet. 

Page 444, Note 220.— "In this humble 
and delicate manner did poor Burns ask for 
a copy of a work, of whicli he was princi- 
pally the founder, and to which he had con- 
tributed, rjratailoudii, not less than 184 
original, altered, and collected soin/.s ! The 
editor has seen ISO transcribed by his owu 
hand for the Museum." — Cromek. 

Page 445, Note 221.— It is truly pcin- 
fill to mention, that the request was not 
granted. — Chambers. 

Page 44o, Note 222.— Just before his 
death, however. Burns had the satisfaction 
of receiving a most satisfactory explanation 
of Mrs. Dunlop's silence, and the warmest 
assurances, that if any thing untoward should 
occur to him, her friendship should unre- 
mittiugly be extended to his widuw and 
children. The subsequent history of hii 



COERESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



537 



family sufficiently proves how nobly, gene- 
rously, aiul devotedly Mrs. Duulop kept her 
promise to the poor dying poet. 

Page 440, NoTii 223. — Mr. James Bur- 
ness immediately complied witli the request. 

Page 440, Note 224.— The sons,' of 
which Burns here alludes, is that of which 
the initiatory line runs thus : — 

Fairest maid on Devon's banks. 

Dr. Currie adds the following note: — 
" These verses, and the letter enclosing 
them, are written in a character that m:irks 
the very feeble state of Burns's bodily 
strength. Mr. Syme is of opinion that he 
could not have been in any danger of a jail 
at Dumfries, where certainly he had many 
firm friends, nor under any such necessity of 
imploring aid from Edinburgh. But about 
this time his reason began to be at times 
unsettled, and the horrors of a jail per- 
petually haunted his imagination, lie died 
on the 21st of this month." 

Page 446, Note 22.5. — The pecuniary 
circumstances attending ]Mr. Thomson's con- 
nection with Burns, appear liable, at the 
present day, to much misapprehension. This 
gentleman, whose work has ultimately met 
with a good sale, seems to be regarded by 
some, as an enriched man who measured a 
stinted reward to a poor one, looking for a 
greater recompense : and several writers 
have, on this ground, spoken of him in an 
ungracious manner. 

A\heu we go back to the time of the cor- 
respondence between the two men, and con- 
sider their respective circumstances, and the 
relation in which they came to stand towards 
each other, the conduct of Mr. Thomson 
assumes quite a different aspect, lie and 
Burns were enthusiasts, the one in music, 
the other in poetry ; they were both of them 
servants of the government, on limited 
salaries, with rising families. Mr. Thomson, 
with little prospect of profit, engaged in the 
preparation of a work which was designed to 
set forth the music of his native land to 
every possible advantage, and of which the 
paper and print alone were likely to exhaust 
his very moderate resources. For literary 
aid in tliis labour of love, he applied to the 
great Scottish poet, Mho had already gra- 
tuitously assisted Johnson in his Scottish 
Musical Museum. ^Ir. Thomson offered 
reasonable remuneration, but the poet 
scorned the idea of recompense, and de- 
clared he would write only because it gave 
him pleasure. Nevertheless, ^Mr. Thomson, 
in the course of their correspondence, ven- 
tured to send a pecuniary presert, which. 



although not forming an adequate recom- 
pense for Burns's services, was still one 
which such men might be apt, at that period, 
to otl'er and accept from each other. Tliia 
Burns, with hesitation, accepted, but sternly 
forbade any further remittance, protesting, 
that it would put a period to their correspond- 
ence. Yet Mr. Thomson, from time to 
time, expressed his sense of obligation, by 
presents of a different nature, and these tiie 
poet accepted. Burns uitim.ately, on an emer- 
gency, requested a renewal of the former re- 
mittance, using such terms on the occasion, as 
showed that his former scorn of all pecuniary 
remuneration was still a predominant feeling 
in his mind. Mr. Thomson, therefore, sentthe 
very sum asked, believing, if he presumed to 
send more, that he would run a greater risk 
of offending than of gratifying the poet, in the 
then irritable state of his feelings. In all 
tills, we humbly conceive that no unpreju- 
diced person at the time would have seea 
grounds for any charge against ]Mr. Thomson. 

It may further be remarked, that, at the 
time of the poet's death, though many songs 
had been written, only six had been pub- 
lished, namely, those in the first half volume, 
so that during the Ufe of the poet, the 
publisher had realised nothing by the songs, 
and must have still been greatly doubtful if 
he should ever recover what he had already 
expended on the work. Before many more 
of the songs had appeared in connection 
with his music, the friends of the poet's 
family had resolved to collect his works for 
publication ; upon which, iMr. Thomson 
thought it a duty incumbent on him to give 
up the manuscripts of the whole of the songs, 
together with the poet's and his own letters, 
to Dr. Currie, that they might form part of 
the edition of Burns's works. The full 
benefit of them, as literary compositions, was 
thus realiseil for the poeVs family, Mr. 
Thomson only retaining an exclusive right to 
publish them afterwards in connection with 
the music. And hence, after all, the debtor 
side of his account with Burns is not so 
great as it is apt to appear. No further 
debate could arise on this subject, if it were 
to be regarded in the light in which the 
parties chiefly interested have regarded it. 
We see that Burns himself manifests no 
trace of a suspicion that his correspondent 
was a selfish or niggardly man ; and it is 
equally certain, that his surviving family 
always looked on that gentleman as one of 
the poet's and their own kindest friends. 
Here, we trust, the matter will at length 
rest. 

It is a curious fact, not hitherto known to 



633 



NOTES TO THE CORTlESPONDENCl!: OF EritNS. 



the public, nor even to Mr. Thomson himself, 
that the five pounds sent by him to Burns, 
as well as the larsrer sum which the poet 
burrowed about the same time from his 
cousin, Mr. Burness of Montrose, was not 
made use of on the occasion, but that the 
bank orders for both sums remained in 
Burns's house at the time of his death. This 
is proved by the following document, for 
which we are indebted to Mr. Alexander 
INIacdonald, of the General Register House, 
Edinburgh : — 

" The Testament Dative, and Inventory of 
the debts and sums of money which were 
justly owing to umquhi'.e Robert Burns, 
officer of excise in Dumfries, at the 
tiaie of his decease, viz. the 21st day of 
Jidy last, faithfully made out and given 
up by Jean Armour, widow of the said 
defunct, and executrix qua relict decerned 
to h:_'ia by decreet dative of the Commis- 
sary of Dumfries, dated 16th September 
last." 

There was justly owing to the said defunct, 
at the time of his decease aforesaid, the 
principal sum of five pounds sterling, con- 
tained in a promissory note, dated the 14th 
July last, granted by Sir William Forbes 
and Co., bankers in Edinburgh, to George 
Thomson, payable on demand ; which note 
is by the said George Thomson indorsed, 
payable to the defunct : Item, the principal 
sum of ten pounds sterling, contained in a 
draft dated the 15th July last, drawn by 
Kobert Christie upon the manager for the 



British Linen Co. in Edinburgh, in favour 
of James Burness or order; which draft is 
by the said James Burness indorsed payable 
to the defr.nrt. 

" Sum of tiie debts owing to the defunct, 
£15 sterling. 

"Thomas Goldieof Craigmuie, commissary 
of the commissariat of Dumfries, specially 
constituted for confirmation of testaments 
within the bounds of the said coramio.=......c 

of Dumfries, understanding that, atitr 
due summoning and lawful warning, made 
by public form of edict of the execu- 
tors, testamentary spouse, bairns, if any 
were, and introraitters with the goods and 
gear of the said nmquhile Robert Burns, 
and all others having or pretending to have 
interest in the matter underwritten, &c. &c„ 
1 decerned therein, &c,. and in his Majesty's 
name, constitute, ordain, and confirm the 
said Jean Armour, executrix qua relict to 
the defunct, and in and to the debt and 
sums of money above written. 

" At Dumfries, 6th Oct. 1796." 
— Chambers. 

Page 447, Note 226.— Alluding to an 
offer made by Mr. Gracie, a banker in Dum- 
fries, to have Burns conveyed home in a 
post-chaise. 

Page 447, Note 227. — Burns's father- 
in-law (the father of Mrs. Burns). 

Page 447, Note 228. — This letter was 
written only three days before the deatii of 
Robert Burns, and is the last of the writteii 
memorials which he has bequeathed to the 
world. 



" The eh and gh have always the guttural sound. The sound of the Enslish diphthong oo, is commonly spelled ou. 
The French u, a sound which often occurs in the Scotch laiiiiuase, is marked oo, or ui. The n, in genuine 
Scottish «ords. except when forming a diphthong, or f()llo\ved by an e mute after a single consonant, sounds 
generally like the broad English a in wall. The Scotch diphthong ae, always, and ea, very often, sound like the 
French « masculine. The Scottish diphthong ey sounds like the Latin ei."—l\.. B. 



A. 

A'. All. 

Aback. Away, aloof. 
Abcigh. At a shy distance. 
Aboon. Above, up. 
Abrc.id. Abroad, in fight. 
Abreed. In breadth. 
Ae. One. 
Aflf. oir. 

Afure. Before. 

Aft. Oft. 

Aftcn. Often. 

Agley. Off the right line, 

wrong. 
AiWius. Perhaps. 
Ain. Own. 
Airn. Iron. 
Aith. An Oath. 
Aits. Oats. 
Aiver. An old horse. 
Aizle. A hot cinder. 
Alake. Al;\s ! 
Ahiiie. Alone. 
Akwart. Awkward. 
Amaist. Ahnost. 
Aimmg. Among, 
An'. And, if. 
Ance. Once. 
Ane. Olio, and. 
Arent. Over against 
Anithcr. Another. 
Ase. Ashes. 

Asteer. Abroad, stirring. 
Aught. Possession ; as, in 

a' my aught, iu all my 

p:>ssession. 
AuU. Old. 
Auldfarran, or Auld-far- 

i-ant. Sagacious,cunaiiig, 

prudent 
Ava. At all. 
Awa". Away. 
Awfu'. Awful. 
Awn. The beard of barley, 

OAtS,&C. 

Awnie. Bearded. 
Ayoat. licyoud. 

B. 

Ba'. EaU. 

Backets. Ash boards. 

Backlins. Comiu', coming 

back, returning. 
Bade. Did bid. 
Baide. Krulurcd, did stay. 
Baggie. The belly. 
Bainic. Having large bones, 

stout. 
Bairn. A child. 
Bainitinie. Time of having 

a family. 
Raitli. lioth. 
Ban. To swear. 
Bane. Bone. 
Bang. To beat, to strive. 
Bannock. A kind of thick 

cake of bread, a small 

ja-onack or loaf made of 

oatmeal. 
Bardie. DiminutiTe Of 

bard* 



Barefit. Barefooted 

Barmie. Of, or like barm. 

Hatch. A crew, a gang 

Hatts. Botts. 

Baudrons. A cat. 

Bauld. Bold. 

Baws'nt. Having a whlto 
stripe doHTi the face. 

Be. To let be, to give over, 
to cease. 

Bear. Barley. 

Beastie. Diminutive of 
beast. 

Beet. To add fuel to fire. 

Bclyve. By and bye 

Ben. In, inner room. 

Bethanlut. Grace after 
meat. 

Bcuk. A book. 

Bicker. A kind of wooden 
dish, a short race. 

Bie,orBield. Shelter. 

Bicn. 'Wealthy, plentiful. 

Big. To build. 

Biggin. Building, a 

house. 

Biggit. Built. 

Bill. A bull. 

Billie. A brother, a young 
fellow. 

Biiig. A heap of grain, po- 
tatoes, &e. 

Birk. Birch. 

Birkie. A clever fellow. 

Birring, The noise of par- 
tridges, &c., when they 
spring. 

Bit. Crisis, nick of time. 

Bizz A bustle, to buzz. 

Blastie. A shrivell'd dwarf, 
a term of contempt. 

Blastit. Blasted. 

Blate. Bashful, sheepish. 

Blather. Bladder. 

Blaud. A flat piece of any- 
thing, to slap. 

Blaw. To blow, to boast. 

Blcczin', Blazing. 

Blellum. Idle, talking fel- 
low. 

Bletlier. To talk Idly, 
nonsense. 

BIcth'rin. Talking idly. 

Blink. A little wliilc, a 
smiling look, to look 
kindly, to shine by fits. 

Blinker. A tenn of con- 
tempt. 

Blinliin'. Smirking. 

Blue-gonn. One of those 
beggars who get annually 
on the king's birlh-day, 
a blue cloak or gown, 
with a badge. 

Bluid. Blood. 

Blype. A shred, a large 
piece. 

Bock. To vomit, to gush 
intennittingly. 

Bocked. Gushed, vomited. 

Bodle, A smaU old coin. 



Bonnie, or Bonny, Hand- 
some, boautiiul. 

Boord A board. 

Bnre A hole in the wall. 

Boi>rtrce. The shrub elder, 
planted much of old in 
hedges of barn-yards, &c. 

Bood,orBuid. Behoved. 

Botch, An angry tumour. 

Housing. Drinking, 

Bo^v-kail. Cabbage. 

Bowt. Bended, crooked. 

Brae. A declivity, a preci- 
pice, the slope of a hill. 

Braid. Broad. 

liraik. A kind of harrow. 

Brainge. To run raslily 
forward. 

Bra ng't. Reeled forward. 

Brak. Broke, made insol- 
vent. 

Branks. A kind of wooden 
curb for hoises. 

Brash. A sudden illness. 

Brats. Coai-sc clothes, rags, 
&c. 

Brattle. A short race, 
hurry. 

Braw. Fine, handsome, 

Brawlyt, or Brawlie. Very 
well, finely, heartily. 

Braxie. A diseased sheep. 

Brea.stie. Diminutive of 
breast. 

Ercastit. Did spring up or 
forward. 

Brcckens. Fern. 

Brcef. An invulnerable or 
irresistible spell. 

Breeks. Breeches. 

lirewin*. Brewin;^. 

Brie. Juice, liquid. 

Brig. A bridgi , 

Brunstane, brimstone. 

Brisket. The breast, the 
bosom. 

Brither. A brother. 

Brock. A badger. 

Brogue. A hum, a trick, 

llroo. Broth, liquid, water. 

Broose. A race at country 
w eddings, who shall first 
reach the bridegroom's 
house on retmiiing from 
church. 

Brugh. A burgh. 

Bruilzie. A broil, a com- 
bustion. 

Brunt. Did burn, burnt. 

Brust. To buret, hurst. 

Buchan-bullers. The boil- 
ing of the sea among the 
rocks on the coast of 
Buchan, 

Buirdly, Stout made, 
broad built 

Bum-clock. A humming 
beetle tli.at flies in the 
summer evenings. 

Bummin'. Uumming as 
bees. 



Bnmmle. To blunder. 

Bummler. A blunderer. 

Bunker. A window-seat. 

Burdies. Diminutive of 
bii-ds. 

Bure. Did bear. 

Burn. "Water, a ri%Tilet. 

Burnewin : i. e. bum W»» 
wind. A blacksmith. 

Burnie. Diminutive of bum 

Buskit. Dressed 

Busle A bustle, to bustle. 

But. "Without 

But an' ben. Outer and 
inner apartment. 

By him-elf. Lunatic dis- 
tracted. 

Byke. A bee-hive. 

Byre. A cow-stable, a 
shippen. 

C. 

Ca'. To call, to name, to 
drive. 

Ca'torca'd, Called, driven, 
calved. 

Cadger. A carrier. 

Cadie or caudie. A person, 
a young iellow,anerraua 
boy. 

Caff. Oiaff. 

Caird. A tinker. 

Cairn. A loose heap ot 
stones. 

Calf-ward. A small enclo- 
sure for calves. 

Callan. A boy. 

Caller, Fresh , sound 

Cannie. Gentle, mild, dex- 
terous. 

Camiilie. Dexterously, 
gently. 

Cantie or canty. Cheerful, 
merry. 

Cantrip. A charm, a speU. 

Cap-stane, Cope-stonc,key- 
stone 

Careerin. Cheerfully, 

Carl. An old man. 

Carlin. A stout old woman. 

Cartes. Cards 

Castock. The stalk of a 
cabbage. 

Cauilron. A cauldron. 

Cauk and keel. Chalk and 
red clay. 

Cauld, Cold. 

Caup. A wooden drinking; 
vessel. 

Chanter, A part of a bag- 
pipe. 

Chap. A person, a fellow, 
a blow. 

Cliaup. A stroke, a blow, 

Cheekit. Cheeked. 

Cheep. A chirp, to chirp. 

Chiel or Chcel. A young 
fellow. 

Chimla or Cliimlie. Afire- 
rate, flre-place 

Cliiuila-lug. The fire-side. 



47 



640 



GLOSSARY. 



Chittcrin.!?. Shivering, 

treriiWinpr. 

Chokin'. Choking. 

Chow. To clicw ; cheek for 
cKoiVf side bv side. 

Cliuffie. Fat-iaccd 

Clachan. A small Tillage 
about a church, a hamlet 

Claisp, or claes. Clothes. 

Claith. Cloth. 

Claithing. Clothing 

Claivers. Nonsense, not 
speaking sense. 

Clap. Clapper of a mill. 

Clarkit. AVrote. 

Clash. An idle tale, the 
story of the dav. 

Clatter. To toll little idle 
stories, an idle storv. 

ClauL'ht. Snatched a't, laid 
hold of. 

Claut. To clean, to scrape. 

ClauteJ. Scraped. 

Claw. To scratch. 

Clced. To clothe. 

Cleckit. Having caiieht. 

Clinkin'. Jerking, clinking 

Clinkumbell. Who rings 
the church bell. 

Clips. Shears. 

Clishmaclaver. Idle con- 
versation. 

Cloi.It. To hatch , a beetle. 

Cloakin'. Hatching. 

Cloot. The hoof of a cow 
sheep, iSc. 

Clootie. An old name for 
the devil. 

Clour. A bump or swelling 
after a blow. 

Coaxin'. 'Wheodling. 

Coble. A fishing boat. 

Coft. Bought. 

Cog. A wooden dish. 

Coggie. Diminutive of cog. 

CoiLA. From Kijle, a dis- 
trict of Ayrshire, so called 
saith tradition, from Coil, 
or C'oUus, a Pictish mo- 
narch. 

Collie. A general and 
sometimes a particular 
name for country curs. 

Commaun. Command. 

Cood. The cud. 

Coof. A blockhead, a ninny. 

Cookit. Appeared and dis- 
appcarcil bv fits. 

Coost. Did cast. 

Coot, or Kuit. The ancle. 

Cootie. A wooden kitchen 
dish; .also those fowls 
whose legs arc clad with 
feathers are said to be 
cootie. 

Corbies. A species of the 
crow. 

Core. Corps, pn rty, clan. 

Corn't. Fed with oats. 

Cotter. Tlie inhabitant of 
a cot-house, or cottage. 

Couthie Kind, loving. 

Cowe. To terrify, to keep 
under, to lop ; a fright, a 
branch of furze, broom, 
&c. 

Cowp, To barter, to tumble 
over, a gang. 

Cowpit. Tumbled. 

Cowrin'. Cowering. 

Cowte. A colt. 

Cozie. Snug. 

Cozllv. Snugly. 

Crubbit. Crabbed, fretful. 

Crack. Conversation, to 
converse. 

Crackin'. Conversing. 

Cratt, or Crott. A field 
near a house, in old hus- 
tiandiy. 



Craiks. Cries or calls in- 1 Descrive. To describe. IFaut Fault, 
cessantly, abird. JDtght. To wipe, to clean Fawsont. Decent, seemly, 



Crambo-dink, or crambo-] corn fiom chaff. 

jingle, llhymes, doggerel ' Dight. Cleaned from chaff. 

verses. j Diuna. Do not. 

Ci'ank. The noise of an un- , Ding. To worst, to push. 

greased wheel. 1 Dirl. A slight tremulous 

Crankous. Fretlul , captious, stroke or pa in . 
Cranreuch. The hoar frost. Disiaskit. Jaded, worn out 
Crap. A crop, to crop. with fatigue. 

Craw. Acrow of acock, aiDizzen,or Diz'n. A dozen. 



rook, 

Creel. A basket. To have 
one's wits in a creel, to 
be crazed, to be fasci- 
nated. 

Crceshie. Greasy. 

Crood, or croud. To coo as 
a dove. 



Doited. Slupificd, hebe- 
tated. 

Dolt. Stupified, crazed. 

Dousio. Unlucky. 

Dool. Sorrow; to sing 
dool, to lament, to mourn. 

Dorty. Saucy, nice. 
I Douce, or Douse. Sober, 



Croon. A hollow and' wise, prudent 

continued moan ; to make Doucely . Soberly, pr u- 

a noise like the continued | den fly. 

roar of a bull ; to hum a Dought. 'Was or were able. 

tune. IDoure. Stout, dm-able. 

Crooning. Humming. I stubborn, sullen. 
Crouchie. Crook-backed. |Dow. Am <«• are able, can. 
Crouse. Cheerful, coura-jDowff. Pithless, wanting 

geous. I force. 

Crously. Cheerfully, cou-iDowie. AYorn with grief, 

rageously. | fatigue, &c., h.alf asleep. 

Crowdie. A composition of Downa. Am or are not 

oatme.al and boiled water, ' able, cannot. 

sometimesfrom the broth Drap. .\ drop, to drop. 

of beef, mutton, &e. jDrapping. Dropping. 

Crowdie-time. Breakfast- ; Drccp. To ouze, to drop. 

time. Drcigh. Tedious, long 

Crowlin. Crawling. I about it. 

Crummock. A cow with; Dribble Drizzling. 

crooked horns. j Drift. A drove. 

Crump. Hard and brittle, iDroddum. The breech. 

spoken of bread. i Droop. Humped, that 

Crunt. .\ blow on the head j droops at the crupper. 

ith a cudcrel. Drouth. Thirst, drought. 

Cuif. A blockhead, aninny. [Drucken. Drunken. 
Cummock. A short staff, Drumly. Muddy. 

with a crooked head. .Drummock. Meal and 
Curchie. A curtsey. water mixed, raw. | 

Curler. A player at a gamelDruut. Pet, sour humour. Flethcr. To decoy by fair 

on the ice, practised in! Dub. A small pond. words. 

Scotland, called curling. |Duds. lla^s, clothes. Fley. Toscare, to frighten. 

Curlie. Curled, whose hair iDuddie. Itagged. iFiit'chcr. To flutter, as 

fallsnaturally in ringlets. ! Dung. Worsted, pushed, young ne.-ilings, when 
Curling. A well-known ; driven. their dam approaches. 

game on ice. IDush. To pushasaram,iSc. Flinders. Shreds, broken 

Curmurring. Murmuring, jDusht. Pushed by a ram, I pieces, 

a slight rumbling noise. I ox, ftc. FUngin-tree. A piece of 



Feal. A field, smooth. 
Fearfu'. Frightful. 
Fear't. Frighted. 
Feat. Neat, spruce. 
Fecht. To fi'.'ht. 
Fi'Clitin. Fi;;htins. 
Feck. Many, plenty. 
IVckfu". Large, brawcyj 

stout. 
Feckless. Puny, weak, 

silly. 
Feg. Fig. 

Feid. Feud, enmity. 
Fc 11. Keen, biting ; the 

flesh immediately under 

the skin, a field pretty 

level, on the side oi top 

of a hill. 
Fend. To live comfortnb'y. 
Ferlic, or Fcrley. Tc won- 
der ; a wonder, a term of 

contempt. 
Fetch. To pull by fits. 
Fetch't. Pulled 'intermit- 
tently. 
Fid-e. To fidget. 
Fient. Fiend, apretty oath. 

ier. Sound, healthy; a 

brother, a friend. 

it. A foot. 
Fi>Ie. To make a rustling 

noise, to fidget, tc bustle. 
Fittie-lan. The nearer 

horee of the hindmost 

pair in the plough. 
Fizz. To make a hissing 

noise, like fermentation, 
Flainen. Flannel. 
Fleecli To supplicate in a 

Hattcring manner. 
Fleechin. Supplicating. 
Flccsh. A fleece. 

[eg. A kick, a random 

blow. 
Fletherin. Flattering. 



Curjjin. The crupper. 

Cushat. The dove, or wood- j E. 

pigeon. 1 Ee. The eye. 

Cutty. Short, a spoon 1 Ecu. The eyes. 

broken in the middle, aJE'enin'. Evening. 

short pipe. : Eerie. Frighted, drcadini 

I spirits. 
D. 'EiUl. Old age. 

Daddie. A father. ! Elbuck. The elbow. 

Datfln. Merriment, foolish- ; Eldritch. Ghastly, fright- 

ness. I ful. 

Daft. MeriT, giddy, foolish- i En'. End. 
Daimen. Rare, now andiENURUou. Edineuuoh. 

then; daimen icker, an'Eneugh. Enough, 
of corn now aud then. Especial. Especially. 



Dainty. Pleasant, good- 
humoured, agreeable. 

Dales. Plain"""— ifeys. 

D.irklins. Darkling. 

Daud. To thiash, to abuse. 

Daur. To dare. 

Daurt. Dared. 

A large piece. 

Daiu'ir, or Dam'k. A day's 
labour. 

Dautit, or Dautet. Fon- 
dleil,care.«sed. 

Dearies. Diminutive of 
dears, 
•earthfu". Dear. trouble, to care for 

Dcave. To dealen. Fasht. Troubled. 

Deil-ma-care. No matter! 'Fasfcn-e'en. Fasten'sEven. 
for all that! Fauld. A fold, to fold. 

Deleeril^ Dclirio«[«. I Paulding. Folding. 



Ettle. To try, attempt. 
Eydent. Diligent. 



Fae. A foe. 

Facm. Foam. 

Faikct. Unknown. 

Fairin. A fairing, a present. 

Fallow. Fellow. 

Fand. Did find. 

Farl. A cake of bread. 

Fash. Trouble, care, to 



timber hung by way of 
partition between "two 
horses in a stable, a flail. 

FUsk. To fret at the vokc. 

Fiskit. Fretted. 

Flitter. To vibrate like the 
wings of small birds. 

Flitteiing. Fluttering, vi- 
brating. 

I'lunky. A servant in livery. 

Foord. A ford. 

Forbears. Forefathers. 

Forbye. Hesides. 

Forfairn. Distressed, worn 
out, jaded. 

Forl'ouL'luen. Fatigued. 

Forgail '. "To meet, to 



cue 



ith. 



Forgie. 

Foijavkit. Jiided, worn 

oiit with fatigue. 
Fou'. Full, drunk. 
Foughlen. Troubled, har- 

rassed. 
Fouth. Plenty, enough, or 

more than enough. 
Fow. .-V bushel, &c., also a 

pitch-fork. 
Frae. From. 
Fiaeth. Froth. 
Frien'. Friend. 
Fu'. Full. 
Fud. The scat, or tail of 

the hare, coney, &c. 



GLOSSARY. 



541 



Fu/r. To blow intermit- 
tently. 

Fiitt^t. Did blow. 

Funnie. ruU of merriment. 

Fur. A funow. 

Furra. A form, a licnch. 

Fyke. Tritiint; earcs; to 
"jiiildlc, to be in a fuss 
about trouble. 

Fvlc. To soil, to (iirty, 

Fjrt. Soiled, dirtied. 

G. 
Gab. The mouth, to speak 

boldly, or pertly. 
Gae. To so; gaed, went; 

paffn or gane, gone ; gaun 

goiu?. 
Gael, Gait, or Gate. AVay, 

manner, read. 
Gang. To go, to walk 
Gar. To make, to force to. 
Gar't. Forced to. 
Garten. A garter. 
Gash. AVise, sagacious, 

talkative, to converse. 
Gashin'. Conversing. 
Gaucy. Jolly, large. 
Gear. Riches, goods of any 

kind. 
Geek. To toss the head in 

wantonness or scorn. 
Ged. A pike. 
Gentles. Great folks. 
Geordie. A guinea. 
Get. A child, a young one. 
Ghaist. A ghost. 
Gie. To give ; gicd, gaye ; 

gien, given. 
Giltie. Diminutive of gift. 
Gillie. Diminutive of gill. 
Gilpey. A half-grown, hali- 

inlonned boy or girl, a 

romping lad, a hoyden. 
Gininier. An e ne fiom one 

to two years old. 
Gin. If, against. 
Gipsey. A young girl. 
Girn. To grin, to twist the 

features in rage, agony, 

C(mvulsion, i&c. 
Giniing. Griiuiing. 
Gizz. A periwig. 
Glaikit. Inattentive, fool- 
ish. 
Glaive. A sword. 
Uawky. Hall-witted,fool- 

i>h, romping. 
Clai/ie. Glittering, smooth 

like a glass. 
Gleg. Sliarp, ready. 
Glcy. Asquint, to squint; 

a-gley, off at a side, 

wron^. 
Glib-gabbet. That speaks 

smoothly and readily. 
Glint. To peep. 
Glinted. I'ceped. 
Glintiu'. I'eeping. 
Gloamm'. The twilight. 
Glo«r. To stare, to look; 

a stare, a look. 
Glowred. Looked, stared. 
Goavan. Looking in a 

stupid manner. 
Gowan. The wild daisy. 
Gowd. Gold. 
Gowir. Tnc game of golf; 

to strike as the bat docs 

the ball at golf. 
Go«rd. ijtruck. 
Gowk. A cuekoo, a term 

of contempt. 
Gowl. To howl. 
Granc, or Grain. A groan, 

to groan 
Oiaiu'd. Groaned. 
Gaining. Groaning. 
Graip. A proiiireil in*tni- 

nicut lorcleaiiUiX stables. 



[Graith. Actoutrements, 

lurniture, drt>ss. 
Grannie. Grandmother. 
Grape. To grope. 
Grapit. Groped. 
Great. Intimate, familiar. 
Gree. To agree, to bear 

the grcc, to be decidedly 

victor. 
Grec't. Agreed. 
Greet. To shed tears, to 

weep. 
Grcetin'. Crying, weeping 
Greusome. Loatliesomcly, 

grim. 
Grippet. Caught, seized 
Groat. To get the whistle 

of one's groat, to play a 

losing game. 
Giozet. Gooseberry. 
Grumph. A grunt, to grunt. 
Grumphie. A sow. 
Grun'. Ground 
Grunstane A grindstone 
Grimtle. The phiz, agrunt- 

Grusbie. Thick, of thrivin; 



growth. 

GuDE. The Supreme Being; 
good. 

Guid-mornin'. Good-mor- 
row. 

Guid-e'en. Good-evening. 

Gtiidman and Guidwile. 
The master and mistress 
of the house ; young guid- 
nian, a man newly mar- 
ried. 

Gullv, or Gullie. A large 
kiiiie. 

Guidfathcr, Guidmother. 
Father-in-law and mo- 
ther-in-law. 

Gusty. Tasteful. 

H. 

Hall. 
Ha'-bihlc The great bible 

that lies in the ball. 
Hae. To have. 
Haen. Had, participle of 

have. 
Ilaet, fient haet. A petty 

oatliofneiration,nothini^. 
Hatfct. The ten-.ple, the 

side of the head 
HafHins. Kearly half, 

partly. 
Hag. A scaur or gulf in 

mosses and moors. 
Haggis. A kind of minced 

pudding boiled in the 

stouiacii of a cow or 

sheep. 
Hain. To spare, to save. 
Hain'd. Spared. 
Haii>t. Harvest. 
Haitb. A petty oath. 
Haivers. Nonsense, -peak- 

ithout thought 
lIal',or Uald. An abiding 

place. 
Halo. ■Whole, tight, 

healthy. 
Ilame. Home. 
Uallan. A partition wall 

in a cottage near the 

doorway. 
Hallow-e'en. The eve of 

All Saints Day, or All 

Hallows. 
Haniely. Homely, affable. 
Han' or Hauu'. Hand. 
Hap. An outer garment, 

mantle, i)laid, iVe.; to 

M'rap, to cover, to hap. 
Happer. Hopper. 
Happing. Hopping. 
Hap, step, an' loop. I op, 

skip, and jump. 



Harkit. Hearkened. 
Hani. Verv coarse linen. 
Hash. A fellow that neither 
knows how to dress nor 
act with pioprieiy, 
Hastit. Hastened. 
Hand. To hold. 
U,iiu,'bs. I.ow-lving rich 

lands, valleys. " 
Ham 1 To dfaur, to peel. 
Haurlin'. reeling-. 
Haverel. A half-witted 

pci'son, half-witted. 
Havins. Good manners, 

decorum, good sense. 
Haw kie. A cow, jiroperly 

one with a white face. 
Heapit. Heaped. 
Healsorae. Healthful, 

wholesome. 
Heai-se. Hoarse. 
Heai't. Hear it. 
Heather. Heath. 
Heeli ! Oh ! strange. 
Hecht. I'rnmiscd to fore- 
tell something that is to 

be got or givi-ii ; foretold; 

the thing forctnUl. 
Hecze. To elevate, to raise. 
Herd. To tend Hocks, one 

who tends Hocks. 
Herrin. A hciTing. 
Heiry To plunder, most 

pnipcily to plunder birds' 

nests. 
Henyment. Plundering, 

devastation. 
Hci'sel. Herself. 
Het. Hot. 
Heugh. A crag, a coal-pit. 
Ilileli. A hobble, to halt 
Hilchin'. Halting. 
llimsel'. Himscli. 
lUn;;. To hang, 
liiiple. To walk lamely, 

to iieep. 
Hiisel. .\ herd of cattle, or 

Hock of sheep. 
Histie. Dry, chapt, barren, 
Hitcht. A loop, a knot. 
Hizzie. Hussy, a young 

gill. 
Hoddin. The motion of a 

sage countryman, riding 

on a carthorse. 
Hog-score. A kind of dis 

tance line, in curling, 

draw n across the rinh 
Hog-shouther. A kind of 

horse-play, by jostling 

with the shoulder i to 

jostle. 
Hool. Outer-skin or case, 

a nut-shell, peas swade. 
Hoolie. Slowly, leisurely ; 

take leisure, stop. 
HookI. Aboard; to hoard. 
Hoordit. Hoarded. 
Horn. A spoon made of 

lioi'n. 
Honiie. One of the many 

names of the devil 
Host, or boast. To cough. 
Hostin'. Coughing. 
Hotch'd. Turned topsy- 
turvy, blended, mi.ved. 
Houghniagandie. Some- 
thing improper. 
Hnulet. An owl. 
Housie. Diminutive of 

house. 
Hove. To heave, to swell. 
Hov'd. Heav'd, swelled. 
Howdie. A midwife. 
Howe. Hollow, a hollow 

or dell. 
Howebackit. Sunk in the 

b.ack, spoken of a horse, 

&c. 
Uowk. To dig. 



Howklt. Digged. 

Howkin'. Digging. 

Hoy. To urge. 

Hoy't. Urged. 

Hoyse. To piil! upwardi 

Hoyte. To aiv.blc erazily. 

Hughoc. Diminutive of 

Hugh. 
Hureheon. A hedgehog. 
Hurdios. The loins, tbe 

crupper. 



r. In. 

lekcr. Ar ear of com. 

ler-oe. A great-gr and- 
child. 

Ilk, or Ilka. Each, every. 

Ill-Willie. Ill-natured, ma- 
licious , niggardly. 

Inginc. Genius, iiigenuity. 

Ingle. Fire, fire-place. 

I'.se. I shall or mil. 

Ither. Other, one another. 

J. 

Jad. Ja-de; also a familiar 

term among country iiilka 

for a giddy young girl. 
Jauk. Todally,to tririe. 
Jaukin'. TriHi'n£r, dallying. 
Jaup. A jerk ot' water ; to 

jerk as agitated water. 
Jaupit. Soiled with spaika 

of mud. 
Jaw. Coai-se raillery, to 

pour out, to shut, to jerk 

as water. 
Jaiet. A jilt, a giddy 

girl. 
Jimp. To jump, slender in 

the waist, handsome. 
Jink. To dodge, to turn a 

corner, a sudden turning, 

a corner. 
Jinker. That turns quickly, 

a gay sprightly giil, a 

wag. 
Jinkin'. Dodging. 
Jirk. A jerk 
Jocteleg. A kind of knife. 
Jouk. I'o stoop, to bow the 

head. 
Jow. To jow ; a verb 

which includes both the 

swinging motion and 

pealing sound of a large 

bell. 
Jumlie. Muddy. 
Jundie. To jusUe. 

K. 

ICae. A daw. 

Kail. Colewort, a kind ol 
broth. 

Kail-runt. The stem oi 
colcH ort. 

Kain. Fowls, &e., paid aa 
rent by a farmer. 

Kcbbuck. A cbeese. 

Keek. A peep, to peep. 

Kelpies. A sort of mis- 
chievous spirits, said to 
haunt fords and ferries at 
night, especially in 
storms. 

Ken. To know; kend, or 
ken't, knew. 

Kennin. A small matter. 

Ket. Matted, liuiry, a 
ttcece of wool. 

Kiaugh. Calking, anxiety. 

K ilt. To truss up llie clotheSi 

Kin. Kindred. 

Kiminer. A young girl, a 
gossip. 

Km'. Kind. 

King's-hood. A certain 
part of the cnti-ails of an 
auimul. 



542 

Kintra. Country. 

Kirn. The harvest supper, 
a chum, 

Kirscn. To christen or 
baptise. 

Kist. Chest. 

Kitchen. Sauce ; anything 
that cats with bread, to 
serve for soup, gravy, &c. 

Kittle. To tickle, ticklish. 

Kittlin', A young cat. 

Knasgie. Like knngs, or 
points of rocks. 

Knappin'-Ixammer'. A ham- 
mer for breaking stones. 

Knowe. A small round 
hillock. 

Kuittle. To cuddle. 

Kuittlin'. Cuddling. 

Kye Cows. 

Ktle. a district in Ayr- 
shire. 

Kyte. The belly. 

Kytlic. To become evident, 
to show one's self. 



G.LOSSATIY. 



Laddie. Diminutive of lad 

Laggen. The angle between 
tiie side and bottom of a 
wooden dish. 

Laigh. Low. 

Lairing. Wading, and sink- 
ing in snow, mud, <S:c. 

Laith. Loath. 

Laithfu'. Bashful, sheepish 

Lallans. Lowland dialect 

Lambie. Diminutive ol 
lamb. 

Lampit. A kind of shell- 
fish. 

Lau". Land, estate. 

Lane. Lone, my lane, thy 
lane, &c., myself alone. 

Lanely. Lonely. 

Lang. Long; to" think Ian: 
to ions, to weai'y. 

Lap. Did leap. 

Lave. The rest, the re- 
mainder, the others. 

Laverock. The lark. 

Lawlan'. Lowland. 

Lea'e. To leave. 

Leal. Loyal, true, faithful. 

Lear. Learning. 

Lee-lang. Livelong. 

Leeze me. A phrase of 
congratulatory endear- 
ment ; I am happy in 
thee, or proud of thee 

Leister. A three-pronged 
dart for striking fish. 

Lcuglx. Did laugh. 

Leuk. A look, to look. 

Lilt. 8ky. 

Lightly. Sneeringly, to 
sneer at. 

Lilt. A ballad, a tunc, to 
sing. 

Limmer. A kept mistress, 
a strumpet. 

Lin>'t. Limped, hobbled. 

Link. To trip along. 

I.inkin'. Tripping. 

Linn. A waterfall. 

Lint, riax; lint i' the bell, 
t!ax in the flower. 

Cintwhite,Lintie. Alinnet. 

Loan. The place of milk- 
ing. 

Loof. The palra of the 
hand. 

Loot. Did let. 

I.1JOVCS. The plural of loof. 

Louu. A fellow, a waggish 
lad. 

Lowe. Aflame. 

Lowin'. Flaming, 

Lowrie. Abievlation of 
Lawrence. 



Lowse. To loose. 
Lows'd. Loosed. 
Lug. The ear, a handle. 
Lugget. Having a handle. 
Luggie. A small wooden 

dish with a handle. 
Lum. The chimney. 
Lunch. A large piece of 

cheese, flesh, etc. 
Lunt. A column of smoke ; 

to smoke. 
Luntin'. Sraokini. 
Lyart. Of a mixed colour, 

grey. 

M. 

Mae. More. 

Mair. More. 

Maist. Most, almost. 

Maistly. Mostly. 

Mak. To make. 

Makiu'. Making. 

Mallie. Molly. 

Mang. Among. 

Manse. The pai-sonage 

house, where the minister 

lives. 
Jlanteele. A mantle. 
Mark, marks. This, and 

several other nouns,which 

in English require an s to 

form the plural, are in 

Scotch like the words 

sheep, deer, the same in 

both numbers. 
Mar's year. The year 1715, 

in which the rebellion 

broke out under the liarl 

of Mar. 
Maslilum, meslin. Mixed 

corn. 
Mask. To mash, to infuse 

as tea. 
Maskin'-pat. A tea-pot. 
Maukin. A hare. 
Maun. Must. 
Mavis. The thrush. 
Maw. To mow. 
JIawin'. iMovving. 
Meere. A mare. 
Jlcldcr. Corn, or grain of 

anv kind, sent to' the mill 

to oe ground. 
Mcll. To mingle; also a 

mallet. 
Jlclancholious. Jloumful. 
Mclvie. To soil with meal. 
Men'. To mend. 
Mense. Good manners, 

decorum ; something that 

looks respectable. 
Mcnseless. Ill-bred, rude, 

impudent. 
Merle. The blackbird. 
Mcssin. A small dog. 
iliddeu. A dunghill. 
Midden-hole. A gutter at 

the bottom of a dunghill. 
Slim. Prim, affectedly 

meek. 
Min'. Mind, remembrance. 
Mind't. Mind it, resolved, 

intending. 
Minnie. Mother, dam. 
Misca'. To abuse, to call 

names. 
Misca'd. Abused. 
Misleai'*d. Mischievous,uu 

maimerly. 
Misteuk. Mistook. 
Mithcr. Mother. 
Mixtie-maxtie. Confusedly 

mixed. 
Moistity. To moisten. 
Mony, or Monie. Many. 
Moop. To nibble as ashcep. 
MoopandMell. Toeatand 

consort together. 
Moorlan'. Of or belonging 

to moors< 



Mom. The next day, to- 
morrow. 

Mou. The mouth. 

Moudiwort. A mole. 

Mousie. Diminutive of 
mouse. 

Muckle, or MIckle. Great, 
big, much. 

JIusie. Diminutive of 
muse. 

Muslin-kail. Broth com- 
posed simply of water, 
shelled barley and greens. 

Mutchkin. Aa English 
pint. 

Mysel'. Myself. 



N. 

Na'. No, not, nor. 

Nae. No, not any. 

Naething, or Naithing. 
Nothing. 

Naig. Anag, a horse. 

Nane. None. 

Nappy. Brisk-ale, to be 
ti|)sy. 

Negleckit. Neglected, 
■bor. A neighbour. 

Neuk. Nook. 

Niest. Next. 

Nieve. The flst. 

Nievefu'. Handful. 

Nilfer. An exchange ; to 
rcliange ; to barter. 

Nigger. A negro. 

Nine-tailed-cat. A hang- 
man's whip. 

Nit. A nut. 

Norland. Of or belonging 
to the North. 

Notic't. Noticed. 

Nowte. Black cattle. 



o: Of. 



o. 



Ony, or Onle. Any. 

' r. Is oiten used for ere, 
before, 
't Of it. 

Ouric. Shivei-ing, drooping. 

Oursel', or Oursels. Our- 
selves. 

Outlers. Cattlenot housed. 

Owre. 0>Te, too. 

O »re-hip. A way of fetch- 
ing a blow with the 
hammer over the arm. 



rack. Intimate, faniilar. 

Painch. Paunch. 

Paitrick. A partridge. 

Pang. To cram. 

Parritch. Oatmeal pud- 
ding, a well-known 
Scotch dish. 

Pat. Did put, a pot. 

Battle, orPettle. Aplough- 
staff. 

Paughty. Proud, haughty. 

Pauky. Cunning, sly 

Pay'ti Paid, beat. 

Pech. To fetch the breath 
short, as in an asthma. 

Pechan. The crop, the 
stomach. 

Peelin'. Peeling. 

Pet. A domesticated lamb. 

Pettle. To cherish; a 
ploughstaff. 

Phraise. Fair speeches, 
flattery, to flatter. 

Phraisin'. Flattery. 

Pickle. A small quantity. 

Pine. Pain, imeasiness. 

Pit. To put. 

Placad. A public proclama- 
tion, to publish publicly. 

Placklcss. Penniless, with- 
out money. 



Plack. An old Scotch coin, 
the third part of a Scotch 
penny, 12 of which make 
an EnglLsh penny. 

Plaitie. Diminutive oJ 
plate. 

Plew, orplcugh. A plough. 

Pliskie. A trick. 

Poind. To seize cattle or 
take goods by legal exe- 
cution. 

Poortith. Poverty. 

Pou. To pull. 

Pouk. To pluck. 

I'oussie. A hare, or cat ; o 
demui-e old woman. 

Pout. A poult, a chick. 

Pou't. Did pull. 

Pouthery. Like powder. 

Pow. The head, the skull. 

Pownie. A pony, a little 
horse. 

Powther,orpouther. Pow- 
der. 

Preen. A pin. 

i Prent. Printing. 

iPrie. To taste. 

Prie'd. Tasted. 

Prief. Proof. 

Prig. To cheapen, to dis- 
pute. 

Priggin". Cheapening. 

Primsie. Demure, precise. 

Propone. To lay down, to 
propose. 

Provoscs. Provosts. 

Fund. Pound , poxmds. 

Pyle. A pyle o' caff, a 
single gram of chaff. 

a. 

Quat. To quit. 
Quak. To quake. 
Uuey. A cow from one to 
two years old ; a heifer. 

R. 

Ragweed. Herb ragwort. 

Raible. To rattle nonsense. 

Eair. To roar. 

Raize. To madden, to in- 
flame. 

Eam-feezl'd. Fatigued, 
overspread. 

Ram-stani. Thoughtless, 
forward. 

Raploch. Properly a coarse 
cloth , but used as an ad- 
jective for coarse. 

Rarely. Excellently, very 
well. 

Rash. A rush ; rash-buss, 
a hush of rushes. 

Ration. A rat. 

Rauele. Rash, stout, fear- 
less. 

Raught. Reached. 

Raw. A row. 

Rax. To stretch. 

Ream. Cream; to cream. 

Reaming'. Brimful, froth- 
Reave. Rove. 

Reck. To heed. 

Rede. Counsel ; to coimsel. 

Red-wat-shod. Walking 
in blood over the shoe- 
tops. 

Red-wud. Stark mad. 

Rec. Half tipsy, in high 
spirits. 

Reck. Smoke. 

Ri'ckin'. Smoking. 

Roikit. Smoked, smoky. 

Reisle. A rousing. 

Rcmead. Remedy. 

Roquilc. Requited. 

Rest. To stand restive. 

ResUt. Stood restive 
blunted, withered 



GLOSSARY. 



643 



I 

[ 



Restrlfked. Restricted, 

Uii f. Kiof, plenty. 

Ki^. A riJfje. 

Kin. To run, to melt ; riU' 
nin', running. 

Rink. The course of the 
stones, a term in curling 
on ice. 

Rip A handful of un 
thrashed corn . 

Rislcit. Made a noise like 
the tearing of roots. 

Rockin". An evening 
meetinir, one of the ob 
jeets of which is spinninc 
with the rock or distaff. 

Rood. Stands likewise for 
the plural roods. 

Roon. A shred. 

xloose. To praise, to com 
mend. 

Roopit. Hoarse, as with a 
cold. 

Roun". Round, in the cir- 
cle of the neighbourhood. 

Row. To roll, to wrap. 

Uow't. Rolled, wrapped. 

Itowtc. To low, to bellow. 

Rowth. Plenty. 

Howtin. Lowing. 

Uozet. Rosin. 

Run?. A cudgel. 

Runt. The stem of a cole- 
wort or cabbage. 

Runkled. "Wrinkled. 



Sae. So. 

Saft. Soft 

Sair To serve, a sore. 

Sairly, or Sairlie. Sorely. 

Sair't. Served. 

Sark. A shirt. 

Sarkit. Provided in shirts. 

.Saugh. The willow. 

Saul. Soul. 

Saumont. Salmon. 

Saunt. A saint. 

Saut. Salt. 

Saw. To sow. 

Sawin". Sowing. 

Sax. Six. 

Scar. To scare, a scare. 

Scaud. To Scald 

Scauld. To scold. 

Scaur. Apt to he scared. 

Scawl. A scola. 

Scone. Athincakeofbread. 

Scraich. To scream, as a 

hen,parlridge,&c. 
Screed. To tear, a rent. 
Scrieve. To glide swiftly 

along. 
Striven. Gleesomely, 

swiftly. 
Scrimp. To scant. 
Scrimpet. Did scant, 

scanty. 
Scunner. A loatlilng, to 

loathe. 
.•Seizin'. Seizing. 
Scl. Self; a body's self, 

one's self alone. 
Sell't. Did sell. 
Sen". To send. 
Scrvan." Servant. 
Settlin'. Settling; to get a 

settlin", to be frighted 

into quietness. 
Sliaird. A shred, a shaird. 
Sh.iiigan. A stick cki'l at 

(■lie end for putting the 

tail of a dog, &c. into, by 

way of mischief, or to 

frighten him away. 
Shaver. A humorous wag, 

a barber. 
Rhaw. To show, a small 

wood in a hollow place, 
tiheon. Ijright, shining. 



Sheep-shank. To think 

one's self nae sheep-shank 
to be conceited. 

Sherra-nuiir. The battle of 
Sheritf-.Moor, foui;ht in 
the Rebellion of 1715. 

Sheugh. A ditch, a wench, 
a >luice. 

Shill. .Slirill. 

Shog. A shock, a push off 
at one side. 

Shool. A shovel. 

Shoon. Shoes. 

Shore. To offer, to threaten. 

Slior'd. Offered. 

Shouther. The shoulder. 

Sic. Such. 

Sicker. Sure, steady. 

Sidelins. Sidelong, slanting 

Siller. Silver, money. 

Simmer. Summer. 

Sin'. Since. 

Skaith. To damage, to in- 
jure, injury. 

Skellum. A worthless fel- 
low. 

Skelp. To strike, to slap; 
to walk with a smart 
tripping step; a smart 
stroke. 

Skelpi-limmer. A wild girl, 
a term in female scolding 

Skelpin'. Stepping, walk- 

Skeigh. Proud, nice, high- 
mettled. 

Skirling. Slirieking, cry- 
ing. 

Skirl. To shriek, to cry 
shrilly. 

Skirl't. Shrieked. 

Sklent. Slant, to run 
aslant, to deviate from 
truth. 

Sklented. Ran, or hit, in 
an oblique direction. 

Skriegh. A scream, to 
scream. 

Sl.ie. Sloe. 

Slade. Did slide. 

Slap. A gate, a breach in 
a fence. 

Maw. Slow. 

Slee. Sly; sloes t, slyest. 

Sleekit. Sleek, sly. 

sliddery Slippery. 

Sl.vpe. To fall over, as a 
wet fiurow from the 
plough. 

Slypes Fell. 

Sma'. Small. 

Smeddum. Dust, powder, 
mettle, sense. 

Smiddy. A smithy. 

Smoor. To smother. 

Smoor'd Smothered. 

Smytrie. A numerous col- 
lection of small indivi- 
duals. 

Snash. Abuse,RilIingsgate. 

snaw. Snow, to snow. 

Snaw-broo. Melted snow. 

Snawie. snowy. 

Sncd. To lop, to cut off. 

Snecshin. Snuff. 

Sneeshin-mill. .\ snuff-box. 

Snell. Ititter, biting. 

Sniek-drawing. Trick-con- 
triving. 

Snick. The latchet of a 
door. 

Snool. One whose spirit is 
broken with oppressive 
slavery ; to submit tamely; 
to sneak. 

Snoove. To go smoothly 
and constantly, to sneak. 

Snowk. To scent or snuff, 
as a dog, horse, &c. 

Snowkit. Scented, snuffed. 



Sonsle Having «weet, en- 
I ga;,'ing looks ; lucky, 
I jolly. 

Boom. To swim. 
Sooth. Truth,aprettyoath. 
Sowcns. A dish made of 

oatmeal soured, &c. 

boiled up till they make 

an agreeable pudding. 
Souple. I"le.\iblc, swift 
Souter. A shoemaker. 
Sowp. A spoonful, a small 

quantity of auy thin 

li>,uid. 
Sowth. Totryoveratunc, 

w itii a low whistle. 
Sowther. Solder, to solder, 

to cement. 
Spae. To prophesy, to 

divine 
Spaul. The loin bone. 
Spairge. To dash, to soil 

as with mire. 
Spaviet. Having the spa 

vin. 
Speat. A sweeping torrent, 

after rain or thaw. 
Sped. To climb. 
Spence. The parlour in a 

country house. 
Spier. 'To ask , to inquire 
Spier't. Inquired 
Splatter. A splutter, to 

splutter. 
Spleughan. A tobacco- 
pouch. 
Splore. A frolic, a noise, 

riot. 
Sprattle. To scramble. 
Spreckled. Spotted, speck- 
led. 
Sprin'j. A quick air in 

music, a Scottish reel. 
Sprit. A tough-rooted 

plant, something like 

rushes. 
Sprittie. Full otsprits. 
Spurtle. The stiik used in 

making oatmeal porridge. 
Spunk. Fire, mettle, ,vit. 
Spunkie Mettlesome, fiery, 

will-o'-wisp, or ignii- 

fatuus. 
Squad. A crew, a party. 
Squatter. To llutter ir, 

water, as a wild duck, 5;c 
Squattle. To sprawl. 
Squeel. Ascream, a screech, 

to scream. 
Stacher. To stagger. 
Stack. A rick of com, hay, 

&c. 
Staffgie. Diminutive of 

stag. 
Stan'. To stand; stan't, 

did stand. 
Stane. A stone. 
Stank. Did stink ; a poo! 

of standing water. 
Slap. Stop. 
Stark. Stiff, stout. 
Startle. To run as cattle, 

stung by the g.adtly. 
Stauinrcl. A blockhead, 

half-witted. 
Staw. Did steal, to surfeit. 
Stecli. To cram the belly. 
Stcchin' Cramming. 
Steck. To shut, a stitch. 
Steer. To molest, to stir. 
Steeve. Firm, compacted. 
Stell. A still. 
Sten. To bound or rise 

hurriedly. 
Sten't. Reared. 
Stents. Tribute, dues of 

any kind. 
Stibble. Stubble; stibble- 

rlg. the reaper in harvest 

who takes the lead. 



Stey. Steep; steyest, steep 

est. 

S'ick an' stow. Totally, 
altogether. 

Stilt. A crutch; to limp; 
to h.alt 

Stinipart. The eiirhth pan 
of a Winchester bushel. 

Stirk. A cow or bullock a 
year old. 

Stock. A plant or root ot 
colewort, cabbage, &c. 

Stockin'. Stocking'; throw- 
ini; the stockin', « hen the 
bride and bridegioom are 
put into bed, and the 
candle out, the former 
throws a SUM kini; at ran- 
d<im among the company 
and the pci-suu whom it 
stiikes is tlic next tha 
will be married. 

Stook. A shock of corn. 

Stooked. tiade up in 
shocks. 

Stoor. Soundini . hollow, 
strong and hoaise. 

Stot. An ox. 

Stoup, or Stowp. A kind of 
jug or di.'h with ahandle. 

Stoure. Dust, more parti- 
cularly dust in motion. 

Stowlins. lly stealth. 

Stowen. Stolen. 

Strack. Did strike. 

Strae. Straw; to die a fair 
stiae death, to die in bed. 

Straik. Did strike. 

Straikit. Stroked. 

Strappan. Tall and hand- 
some. 

Straught Straight. 

Streek. Stretched, 



to 



stretch. 
Striddel. To straddle, 
stroan. To spout 
Studdie. An anvil. 

tunipie. Diminutive of 

stump, 
Struut. Spirituous liquor 

of any kind ; to walk 

sturdily. 
Stnif. Com or pulse of any 

kind. 

turt. Trouble ; to molest. 

turtin. Frighted. 

inker. Su:,'ar. 
Sud. Should. 
Sugh. The continued rush- 
ing noise of wind or 

writer. 
Suthron. Southron, anold 

name for the l^ngli&h 

nation. 
Swaird. Sward 
all'd. S Helled, 
ank. Stately, jolly. 
Swaukie, or Swanker. A 

tight, strapping young 

fellow or girl. 
Swap. All exchange, to 

barter. 

ivat. Did sweat. 
Swatch. A sample. 
Swats. Drink, good ale. 
eatin'. Sweating, 
eer. Lazy, avei^e;dead- 
weer, extremely averse. 
Swoor. swore, did swear, 
inge. To 11 at, to whip. 
Swirlie. Knaggy, full of 

knots. 
Swirl. A curve, an eddying 

blast, or pool; a knot ill 

wood. 
Swith. Get away. 

wither. To hesitate In 

choice, an irresolute 

wavering in choice. 
Syne. Since, ago, then. 



41* 



Bii 



GLOSSARY. 



T. 

rackets. Hobnails for driv 
ing into shoes. 

T;ie. A toe ; tliree-tae'd, 
havina tliroc prongs. 

Tak. To talce; takin', 
taking. 

Tansle. A sea-weed. 

rap. The top. 

Tapctless. Heedless, foolish. 

Tarrow. To murmur at 
one's allowance. 

Tarrow't. Murmured. 

Tarrv-breeks. A sailor. 

Taulil, or Tald. Told. 

Taupic. A foolish, thought- 
less girl. 

Tauted.orTautie. Matted 
togctlier, spoken of hair 
or" wool. 

Tawie. That allows itself 
peaceably to be handled, 
spoken olahorse, CO w,&c. 

Teat. A small quantity, a 
handful. 

Ten-hours' -bite. A slight 
feed to the horses wuile 
in the yoke in the fore- 
noon. 

Tent. Afield pulpit, heed, 
caution ; to take heed. 

Ti ntie. Heedful, cautious. 

Tentless. Heedless. 

Tcugh. Tough. 

ThacK. Thatch ; thack an' 
rape, clothing, necess- 
aries. 

Thae. These. 

Thairms. Small guts,fiddle- 
struiL'S. 

Thankit. Thanked. 

Thcgiiher. Together. 

Themsels. Themselves. 

Thick. Intimate, lamiliar. 

Thieveless. Cold, dry, 
spited, spoken of a per- 
son's demeanour. 

Thir. These. 

Thirl. To thrill. 

Thirled. Thrilled, vibrated. 

Thole. To suffer, to endure. 

Thowe. A thaw, to thaw. 

Thowless. A want of en- 
ergy, fingerless. 

Thrang. Busy, crowded. 

Thrapple. Tiiroat, wind- 
pipe. 

Thraw. To sprain, to twist, 
to contradict 

Thrawin'. Twisting, iSre. 

Thrawn. Sprained, twisted, 
contradicted, contradic- 
tion. 

Threap To maintain by 
dint of assertion. 

Tlireshin". 'I'lirashing. 

Threteen. Thirteen. 

Thristle. Thistle. 

Through. To go on with, 
to make out. 

Through-other. Pell-mell, 
confusedly. 

Thud. To make a loud 
intermittent noise. 

Thumpit. Thumped. 

Thvsel'. Thyself. 

Tili't. To it. 

Tiinmer. Timber. 

Tine. To lose; tint, lost. 

linkler. A Tinker. 



Tip. A ram. 
Ti|>pence. Twopence. 
Till. To make a slight 

noise, to uncover. 
Tirlin'. Uncovering. 
Tither. The other. 
Tittle. To whisper. 
Tittlin'. Whispering. 
Tocher. Marriage portion 
Ted. A fox. 
Toddle. To totter like the 

walk of a child. 
Toddlin". Tottering. 
Toom. Empty. 
Toop. A ram 
Toun. A hamlet, a farm- 
house. 
Tout. The blast of a honi, 

or trumpet, to blow a 

horn, &c. 
Tow. A rope. 
Towmond A twelvemonth. 
Towzie. Rough, shaggy. 
Toy. Aeapof an old fashion 

in female head-dress. 
Toyte. To totter like o'.d 

age. 
Transmogrify'd. Transmi- 

Jjrated .metamorphosed. 
Trashtiie. Ti-ash. 
Trickle. Full ot tricks. 
Trig. Spruce, neat. 
Trimly. Excellently. 
Trow. To believe. 
Trowth. Truth, a petty 

oath. 
Try't. Tried. 
Tug. Raw hide, of which, 

in old times, plough traces 

were frequently made. 
Tulzie. A quarrel; to 

quan'el, to fight. 
Twa. Two. 
Twa-three. A few. 
'Twad. It would. 
T-.val. Twelve ; twal-penny 

worth, a small quantity, 

a pennyworth. 
N.IS. One penny English 

is 12d. Scots. 
Twin. To part. 
Tyke. A dog. 

U. 
Unco. Strange, uncouth, 

ver J very great, prodijfi- 

ous. 
Uncos. News. 
Unkcnn'd. Unkno-wn. 
Unskaith'd. Undamaged, 

unhurt. 
Upo'. Upon. 



Vap'rin. Vapouring. 
A'era. Very. 
Virl. A ferule. 

W. 
Wa'. "Wall ; wa's, walls. 
Wahster. A weaver. 
Wad. Would, to bet, a 

bet, to pledge. 
Wadna. Would not. 
Wae. Woe, sorrowful. 
Waesucks! or waes me! 

Alas! Oh, the pity! 
Watl. The cross thread 

that goes from the shuttle 

through the web. 



Waifu". Wailing. 

AVair. To lay out, to expend 

Wale. Choice, to choose. 

Wal'd. Chose, chosen. 

Walie. Ample, large, jolly; 
also an interjection of 
distress. 

Wame. The belly. 

Wamefou'. A bellyful. 

Wanchansie. Unlucky. 

Wanrestfu'. Restless. 

Wark. Work. 

Wark-lume. A tool to 
work with. 

Waric, or Warld. AVorld. 

Warlock. A wizard. 

Warly. Worldly, eager on 
amassing wealth. 

Warran'. A warrant, to 
Avanant. 

Waist. Worst. 

Warstl'd, or Warsl'd. 
Wrestled. 

Wastrie. rrodigixlitv. 

AVat. Wet; I Wilt, I wot, 
I Itnow. 

Watcr-brose. lirose made 
of meal and watersimply, 
without the addition of 
milk, butter, &c. 

AVattle. A twig, a wand. 

AVauble. To swin^, to reel. 

Wankit. Thickened, as 
fullers do cloth. 

Waukrife. Not apt to sleep. 

Waur. Worse, to worst. 

M'aur't. 'Worsted. 

Wean, or Weanie. A child. 

Wearie, or Weary. Many 
a weary body. Many a 
different person. 

Weason. Weasand. 

Wee. Little; wee thing*, 
little ones; wee bit, a 
small matter. 

Weel. Well; weelfare, wel- 
fare. 

Weet. Rain, wetness. 

We'se. W' e sh.all. 

Wha. Who. 

Whaizle. To wheeze. 

Whalpit. AVhelpcd. 

AVhang. A leathern string, 
a piece of ciieese, bread, 
&c ; to give the strap- 
pado. 

AVhare. AVhcre; wharc'cr, 
wherever. 

Wheep. To fly nimbly, to 
jerk; penny- wheep, small 
beer. 

Whaso. Wniose. 

Whatreck. Nevertheless. 

Whid. The motion of a 
hare, running but not 
friL-hted; a lie; 

WhiJdin'. Running as a 
hare or coney. 

Whigmaleeries. Whims, 
fancies, crochets. 

Whingin'. Crying, com- 
plaining, fretting. 

Whirligigums. Useless or- 
naments, tritlmg appen- 
dages. 

Whissle. A whistle, to 
whistle. 

Whisht. Silence; to hold 
one's whisht, to be silent. 

Whisk. To sweep, to lash. 



Whiskit. Lashed. 

AVhitter. A hearty dr.iught 
of litjuor. 

Whun-stane. A whinstone. 

Whyles. Whiles, some- 
times. 

AVi'. With. 

AA'ick . To strike a stone la 
an oblique direction, a 
term in curling. 

AA'iel. A small « hirlpool. 

AVifie. A diminutive or 
endearing term for wife. 

AVimpIe. To meander. 

AVimpl't. Meandered. 

AVimplin". AVaving, mean- 
dei ing. 

AVin'. To wind, to winnow. 

AVin'. AVind; w'n's, winds 

AVin't. AA'inded, as a bob- 
bin of yarn. 

AVinna. AVill not. 

AViiinoek. A window. 

AVinsome. Hearty, vauntie 
gay. 

AAintle. A staggering mo- 
tion ; to stagirer, to reeL 

AA'inze. An oath. 

AViss. To wish. 

A\itlioutten. AVithout. 

AVizen'd. Hide-hound, 

dried, shrunk. 

AA'omicr. A wonder, a con- 
tcniptcious appellation. 

AVoo'. AVool. 

AVoo. To court, to make 
love to. 

AA'oodie. A rope, more pro- 
perly one made of with* 
or willows. 

AA'ooer-bab. The garter 
knotted below the knee 
with a couple of loops. 

AVordy. AVorthy. 

AVorset. AVorsted. 

AVi ack. To teazc, to vex. 

Wraith. An apparition 
exactly like a living per- 
son, whose appearance is 
said to forbode the per- 
son's approaching death. 

AVrang. AVron?, to wrong. 

Wreath. A drifted heap of 
snow. 

AVud. Mad, distracted. 

V\uinble. A wimble. 

AVyiiecoat. A tiaunel vest. 

Wj te. IJlarae, to blame. 



Ye. This pronoun is fre- 
quently used for thou. 

A'earns. Longs much. 

A'earlings. Rom in the 
same year, coevals. 

Year. Is used both for 
singular and plural years. 

A'ell. BaiTen, that gives no 
milk. 

A"erk. To lash, to jerk. 

Yerkit. Jerked, lashed. 

Y'estreen. Yesternight. 

Yill. Ale. 

Vird. Earth. 

Yokin. Y'okin, abouV 

A"ont. Beyond. 

Yoursel'. Yourself. 

Y'owe. An ewe. 

Y'owie. I)iminntiveofy»WB 

Yule. Cbi'istmas. 



Sl|i)im&ir. 



ttMn nf.Clariniia tn %i\xm; 



TCompare with Lilters Nos. 83 and 84. pp. 
301 and 302.] 

FOR MR. ROBERT BURNS, 

CARE OF MK. CRUIKSHANK. 

2, St. James's Square, 

December Sth, 17S7. 
This is truly a great source of vexation 
and discouragement. It seems really as if 
some malignant foredoom had determined 
that we should not meet, and that none of 
our little arrangements should be consum- 
mated. But if 1 lament ths disappointment* 
which once more prevents us from enjoying 
that delicate "converse of soul," or "feast of 
reason," which I have promised myself in 
your society, how much more keenly do I 
feel for its cause ! 

AVhat a profusion of sentiments, and such 
like, has this accident not marred ! perhaps 
even choked in the earliest incipient develop- 
ment ! 

When you flatter me with the idea of being 
a favourite of yours, you little know " how 
subtle is the uuctiotf." I have longed and 
longed that i\liss Nimmo, who was blessed 
witli your acquaintance, would have imparted 

• As will be noticed in the foregoing Notes 
to the Correspondence, in respect of the first 
two letters of Burns to Clariiula, the i)oct had 
been eniratrcd to take tea with Jlrs. M'Lehose 
on the Gth ('1 hursday). Slie had tlien deferred 
the entertainment of the poet until this day, 
Saturday the Sth, when an accident, causing 
eevcrc injury to his leg. laid him up. 



% small share of that blessing lo me, by 
making us known to each othei. But when 
you were informed that I was a poetess, you 
were mislead by the pleasant irony of our 
mutual and gentle friend. That I am 
passionately fond, nay, even "abandoned" 
(save the word !) to poetry, is true ; that I 
have, from time to time, done something in 
the way of rhyme is true enough; but that I 
have ever written poetry, 1 fear, is no " true 
bill." 

How exquisite are the lines* which you 
send me; not only for the delicate nature of 
the flattery, to which every woman is a little 
alive, but as poetry. Do not think that I am 
weak enough to be spoiled by such adulaticm. 
It is a poet's adulation, and, as you yourself 
observe, "Fiction is the native region of 
poetry." I doubt even, if ten years earlier in 
life, I should have suffered myself to be 
" befooled " by even such beautiful, simple, 
and musical praise as yours. 

But now for my own poetical aspirations, 
or for my own claim to poetical f/ispiration. 
Look over the following; I look to your 
candour, not your compliments. You will 
admit that they possess anything in verse 
except the spirit of poetry. 
[Here follow the "Lines to a Blackbird."^] 

Do not forget to let me hear of you or 
from you, or both, as often as couvcuient ; 

* Alluding to some verses enclosed in Burns'n 
note, to which this was a reply. 

+ These lines, modi lied by Burns, and with 
the addition of four lines of his own, appeared 
in the Scots Miuical Museum. 



64a 



LETTEES OF CLARINDA 



for you know the rigid forms of the world 
now keep us apart, otherwise than by this 
sort of converse. But we must and sliall 
meet, and till then be of good cheer. I 
console myself in my disappointment by the 
thought of what gratification is in store for 
me, and with the sensation, that this pleasure 
is daily accumulating intensity. Adieu. 
A. M. 



NO. H. 

FOR MR. ROBERT BURNS. 

2 St. James Square, 

Dec. Itjth, 1787. 

I HAD no idea till last night that Miss 
Nmimo was so nearly concerned in your 
accident. She is now laying to her own 
charge a share of the cause of it. 

You are well attended. — I know of no 
better surgeon and worthier man than ]\Ir. 
Wood ; and the knowledge that you are 
under his care, if you will but have patience, 
and follow his directions, reassures me con- 
siderably. 

What letters you write ! Do you think 
you are addressing a love-lorn foolish girl of 
sixteen ? Have you any idea your corres- 
pondent is a married woman, and a widow 
only in temporary separation — a widow of 
the heart rather than of the law ? 

You are not likely to play Jacob over 
again, and serve your seven years, and your 
seven years again, in expectation of this 
shadow of future happiness, nor do you 
know yourself; at least, I think not. But 
do let me entreat you not to fatigue yourself 
with too much writing, or to work yourself 
up with excitement. I can rely upon daily 
intelligence of you through Miss Nimrao; 
and I would not have you do anything to 
retard your recovery. For heaven's sake, be 
calm, and patient, and quiet, and we shall 
soon have the pleasure of your society again. 
A. M. 



NO. III. 

[Compare with Letter No. 85, p. 302.] 

Dec. 20th, 1787. 

I KNOW you too well ; at least I think so, 
to. suspect you of really transgressing the 
unvarying boundary of true decorum, much 



more the limits of honour. I have, if I mi* 
take not, thoroughly read your character in 
your imperishable poems. I have perceived 
an impetuous generosity and high-miiided- 
ness, which are apt to overlook the ordinary 
regulations, observed or feigned by sordid 
souls, and in their own native purity 
to be heedless of the interpretations of 
the world. But those interpretations — those 
constructions ! Do they not require some 
more guarded consideration? Were I your 
judge, alas ! I do not think even your 
"handsome troop of follies" would meet 
with much reproof; for " undisciplined" as 
they be,- they are as much a part of what I 
am obliged to admire in your character, as is 
that indomitable independence which dis- 
tinguishes you itself. 

I am much joyed to hear that you are so 
greatly improving with respect of your 
wound— but as to calling you a " stupid 
fellow," I do not think either you or I would 
have much consciousness of attaching 
meaning to the expression. I have proposed 
to myself a more pastoral name for you, 
although it be not much in keeping with 
the shrillness of the Eltrick Pipe. What 
say you to Syhander? I feel somewhat less 
restraint when I subscribe myself 

Claeinda.* 



[Reply to Letter No. 85, pp. 302, 303.] 
Dec. 2\st, 1787. 

I HAVE just received your long and too 
pleasing letter, and seize a few moments to 
write some acknowledgments before I leave 
town, which will be to-morrow morning. I 
am at a loss where to begin ? Is it to you or 
to Dr. Gregory, that I should first reply ? 
What will become of the severer discipline 
to which I must subject my natural foibles 
and vanities ? 

I should be devoid of that strong sense of 
gratitude for good which characterises all 
innocent hearts, did I acknowledge or feel 
my sell unhappy. No, no! Sylvander, that 
is not the word. 1 am not unhappy ! The 
trials and misfortunes which I have under- 
gone, and at which, I fain would shudder, 

• This is the first letter which had been 
si^ed in the assumed name of Clarinda, and 
it has been omitted and described as wantini) 
in all the previous editions of this Correspond- 
ence. 



TO BURNS. 



549 



even now, in the retrospective glance at them, 
are of the past. But I have done no wrong ; 
I am conscious of no misdoing; I am innocent; 
and therefore, I am not unhappy. I behevc 
even those misfortunes to which you rccal 
my memory with lamentation, have mucii 
contributed to chasten those keen sensibili- 
ties of which I am made up, and to make me 
as capable of the real enjoyments of life as I 
now am. I have sought Religion, nor have 
I sought it in vain. And could you but 
catch a glimpse of her in the benign, seemly 
garb and aspect in which she has answered 
to my appeals of sorrow, you would fain see 
in her the real.ultimate, mid or.iy comforter! 
On my return here, which I expect will 
take place towards the middle of next week, 
that is, after Christmas day, I will reply to 
your letter more categorically ; but do not 
speak of our correspondence, for innocent as 
I am, and conscious as I am of that inno- 
cence, you know how censorious are those 
whose vulgar minds are incapable of a similar 
communion. — Farewell ! may God bless you 
and keep you. Ci^AiUNCA. 



\^Compare with the last, i.e. Ko. 4.] 

January 1st, 1798. 

This shall be, at all events, a partial 
fulfilment of the promise by which I bound 
myself in my last, to treat of your letter a 
little more at length, and more categorically. 
In the first place, however, let me tell you 
that 1 have been paying a visit to a country 
friend of mine, who runs complete riot in her 
praise and admiration of you, and whose 
personal endowments and charms would 
I. ike her a truly worthy Clurinda to such a 
Hylvander. You have once met this fair 
admirer of yours at the house of Mrs. Bruce, 
and I must take some occasion, sooner 
or later, of making you personally acquainted, 
as I am sure the admiration will be reciprocal. 
Before I proceed to your letter, let me wish 
you all the kindest, best, and most humane 
of wishes on this first day of a new year, in 
which, with the help of hea\en, may you 
number your days l>y enjoyment, and the 
accession of a year by wisdom. Now for 
your epistle, respecting which, let me first 
thank you for the touching lines which you 
enclose.* 

• Lines addressed to Clarinda, as they ore 
BOW inserted amongst the Poetical Works, in 
the former part of this volume. 



That Dr. Gregory should have found mine 
wanting, in many respects, is not to be won- 
dered at. The faults I had observed myself; 
but they were part of the verses, and I, as 
incapable of amending, as I had been 
incapable of suppressing the expression of a 
particular sentiment. All my grammatical 
knowledge is merely that which is acquired 
by the habits of conversation, writing, or 
reading. I was never taught. 

I think I may rightly interpret your senti- 
ment that " there is no corresponding with 
an agreeable woman without a mixture of 
the tender passion." How little do the 
I majority of the children of the world feel or 
ajipreciate the sentiments of love and friend- 
ship ! How coarsely and constantly do they 
not misapply the one, and desecrate the 
other ! 

That a gentle sentiment should be inevi- 
tably commingled in the communion between 
the sexes, \Nhcre delicacy of sentiment, 
extreme, nay exquisite sensibility and lofty 
consciousness of innocence preside, is natural 
and intelligible. It is the more essentially 
entitled, in this case, to the pure appellation 
of love, that it is free from all the gross 
pursuits of selfish gratification ; that it is 
devoted solely to the elevated purpose of 
conveying real happiness to its object ; in 
fact, that it is honest and unpolluted. In 
such a manner, why should not an intercourse 
of sympathy and intelligence exist between 
those of different sexes? I would frankly 
avow that I think it might, and does in 
perfect innocence ; and I do not feel that I 
should be bound to discard even the term 
which implies the utmost tenderness. 

Nor should we reject the conditions sup- 
plied by circumstance. It is from circum- 
stance, really, that the purest philosophy 
(I mean the wisdom of life) is to be acquired. 
Had you reflected on this, — had you subjected 
my career to the test of comparison with 
circumstance, — hadyouforraedajustestimate 
of my character, after this moralizing 
fashion, you would not have deplored that 
any " malignant demon should have been 
permitted to dash my cup of life and sorrow." 
On the contrary, the all-wise Disposer of the 
world, estimating the peculiar bent of that 
supremacy of passion (corrigible for good, or 
capable of runnhig M'lld for evil), has sub- 
jected it to the schooling, tempering, and 
subduing which were requisite. Thus, by 
calling religion to our aid in the considera- 
tion of ourselves, our lives, our fortune, or 
our misfortune, may we distinguish in each 
sorrow a chastening and gentle provision for 
more enduring happiness than is to be 



650 



LETTERS OF CLARIXDA 



gathered from the sunny field of a perishable 
prosperity ! 

^Mierefore do T tenderly believe in the 
" unknown state of being," in which, as you 
say, we shall one day meet for endless com- 
munion of unalloyed affection 1 Consider : 
should we attain it, except it were through 
the trials of which you complain? But to 
what unlimited extent of gravity am I not 
tending? Shall I not thus surfeit you of 
my sentiments? Will you not condemn 
our correspondence to an untimely and 
abrupt cessation, on account of the tedium 
with which I oppress you? But you should 
not : I feel, and must express all I feel. 
I know no reserve; and in that true and 
heartfelt interest for your happiness, I cannot 
help preaching a doctrine which, I believe, 
may compass it, though it be tardily. It is 
your fault to dash at the first impulse of 
a generous, but tumultuous passion, " into 
mid stream." You would forestall events, 
or deprecate the turn of affairs, from which 
you are to derive all the good which is in 
store for you. 

I am still engaged in reading those poems 
in which your character is so indelibly writ, 
and which will inevitably perpetuate the 
record of your foibles, as well as of your 
loftier qualities. Do favour me with any 
scraps you can spare. Perhaps, also, from 
time to time, you will allow me the freedom 
of expressing the ideas which they suggest, 
the merits which I observe, or even the faults 
which I may distinguish. How much am I 
not pleased, that Dr. Gregory, whose reputa- 
tion for virtue, as well as fur genius, is so 
generally acknowledged, should be numbered 
amongst your trusty friends. If for this 
alone, I should like to be acquainted with 
hnu; for there must be a^'e ne seeds qiioi that 
is kindred in us, for the acceptation and 
discernment of your character, to have been 
common to us both. 

I look upon him as a warm friend of mine, 
also, although we are not even acquainted. 
There is some unseen link between us. But 
I weiry you, and must wish you good bye. 
Clauinda. 



NO. VI. 

[Rei)ly to a Letter from Burns, wJiich is 
wantinr;.'] 
Friday, January itJi, 1788. 

Melancholy is really one of the first 
of incentives to the record of our sentiments 



in verse, and the universal gaiety of the 
season recoils npon me with a sense of deso- 
tion, and makes me insuparably melancholy. 
It is the season of household enjoyments of 
home happiness, and you knov/ I have none. 
What, wonder, then, if, on receiving youif 
lines, I should venture upon a reply " in 
kind ? " I cannot resist the impulse, how- 
ever inadequate be my capacity. Look to it. 
Here are my lines. 

[27;e lines opening, " Talk not of Love', it 
gives me Pain," were here inserted.^ 

I have not, for some time, heard how your 
recovery proceeds. Miss Nimrao, even, has 
not been my companion of late ; and, I 
should, therefore, like to hear an account of 
progress directly from yourself. Does it not 
strike you as very quauit and droll, that we 
two, who have only met once in person, 
should be carrying on so persistent an inter- 
course by means of pen and ink ? If you 
could possibly venture as far as this, in some 
conveyance, I should be happy to receive you 
to-morrow evening, as I ought to have done 
nearly a month ago. If you can come, do 
not omit to take every care of yourself. 

Clarinda. 



{Reply to No. 86, pp. 303, 304.] 

January Gth, 1788. 

How was I not delighted, my dear friend, 
with your letters of last night ! I do not 
know why so lively an interest should he 
excited in one's heart or recollection, by the 
description of an early love-scene, if it be 
not, that all of us have felt the rapture of 
such meetings once, and only once, in our 
lives. The indelible impression which such 
an incident makes upon the mind, is, 1 appre- 
hend, the result of the singularity of the 
feelings which accompany it, and which 
never recur. I do not know whether a 
greater degree of interest is not created iu 
me by the fact, that you instal me as your 
confidant, and unreservedly lay bare your 
foibles and follies to me. This complete 
confidence adds much charm to your letters. 
I cannot resist the fuhiess of feeling — of 
sympathy — which it arouses. I can recal 
similar recollections of my own. Nor do I 
believe that, in all the lofty sentiment, re- 
fined delicacy, and keener discernment of 
maturer years, there is anything which can 



TO BURNS. 



551 



equal the rapture of an early — a first and 
rural love-interview. 

But to reason on other matters : — Why 
are you so hitter an adversary of Calvinism? 
Your avowal confirms the dread which had 
been awakened by some of your satirical 
poems, ^\'herefore, my dear Sylvander, will 
you imputfn these doctrines which are so dear 
to me ? You should not charge a creed with 
the failings, nay, even the knaveries of its 
professed ministers. Where will you find a 
sect which numbers no hypocrites? Calvin- 
ism is amongst my strongest and dearest 
convictions, and stands confirmed in my con- 
science by the best examples — that of an an- 
gelic mother, whom I lost when quite young, 
and that of the only true and devoted friend 
whom I have since possessed. It was not the 
creed which I was taught in infancy, and, 
therefore, does not consist in the attachment 
of prejudice. 

Sly father was attached to Arminianism ; 
and I myself continued in the profession in- 
culcated by my education, until the friend to 
whom I allude, forced conviction upon me ; 
and if I may record a more peacefid and con- 
fident state of mind and hope, since the 
period of this conviction (wliich I certainly 
can do), may I not infer, that the true 
mission of religion, that of inspiring forti- 
tude, long suffering, confidence, hope, resig- 
nation, and complete peace of mind, has 
been fulfilled by this means ? You little 
think, Sylvander, how deeply, how seriously 
our lives, our thoughts, our deeds — every- 
thing — is affected by a thorough religious 
conviction ! It is a sad reflection for me, 
who hold your well-being so dear, to think 
that the misdoing of men should have so 
warped that brilliant luiderstandiug with 
which God lias gifted you, as to have driven 
you almost from the capability of patiently 
entertaining thoughts of this kind. Would 
to heaven, I could prevail with you in this ! 
Would, tiiat you should seriously try the 
merits of such objections as occur to you ! 
Yet, may I not flatter myself, that my Syl- 
vander is not without esteem for my ordi- 
nary judgment. No event would exercise so 
much influence for my gratification, as the 
knowledge, the assurance, that you would 
entertain the question. Do not be wearied 
with my reflections ; do not allow yourself 
to give way to the first impulse of ridicule. 
And when you are seriously inclinctl, and 
can reason with me calmly, and leisurely, 
turn your attention to this letter. 



square, or on the close? If on the square, 
I shall have, at least, the small gratification 
of exchanging glances of recognition with 
you to-morrow afternoon, or the day after, 

as I shall be in that neighbourhood. 

Beware of wedlock, unless you can meet with 
a mate equally ardent in love with yourself. 
You say you fear the improbability of your 
meeting with such a companion ; do not, 
therefore, be precipitate, lest after "marriage 
in haste, you repent at leisure." I have 
many things to say, which I wouhl fain 
write; but it is an endless affair to write llie 
long stories which might be uttered in a 
short half-hour of sweet companionship. So, 
till we meet, let me defer some of these 
burthens which I would gladly have lifted 
from me. Adieu. Write soon. 

Clarinda. 



How is it with the aspect of your apart- 
Gients ? Do your wiudows look out on the 

48 



January* 17S3. 

I HAVE been equally disappointed with 
yourself. I had, as you know, promised 
myself " a glance of recognition," which 
should be mutual from the window of your 
prison. The weather has been very unfa- 
vourable ; and I have been obliged to remain 
in-doors ; in addition to which, my youngest 
child is very ailing. So much so, that for the 
last three or four nights, I have had little 
time for rest. The " bottle " has evidently 
not impaired your intellect, or your feelings, 
but I should think your companions had not 
been exactly to your taste ; and I take it as 
a most unpremeditated compliment, that 
you should turn from those ill assorted 
beings, to our mutual intercourse, to pour 
out the fulness of your heart. How often 
do I not feel, that there are few of fellow- 
feeling with my own intense sensibility, and 
that the majority, consequently, misinterpret 
the warmth and unrestrained overflowings of 
my heart ! My poor child is fretful again, and 
is evidently suffering, and I really do believe, 
I cannot be anything else but a good and 
tender mother. AVhat should you think of 
a mean-spirited woman who should be sur- 
prised at my attachment to children, whom 
I owe to an unnatural husband ? Such wa<, 
however, the actual exclamation of an ac- 
quaintance yesterday. I could not restrain 
the bitterness of my reply to a suggestion, 
w liich was unfeeling as regards me, as it was 



Probably about the 9lh, 1 0th, or 1 1th. 



652 



lettl;:;s Ol' claeinda 



unnatural towards the poor helpless innocent 
children. Do I not feel that I owe them a 
double share of parental love ? 

Besides this, their father's misdoing is 
their misfortune ; and this misfortune alone, 
apart from the tender ties to which it relates, 
would constitute a bond of attachment. 
With what a keen relish and sense of grati- 
fication do I not read Fielding's Amelia. 
You have, doubtless, read it, and have, like 
me, admired, nay, felt the domestic tender- 
ness, which could only have been portrayed 
by one who deeply felt it. Can you not ad- 
mire a Booth in his ardent, but thoughtless 
attachment, before a cold, calculating hus- 
band, whose artificial virtues are as repulsive 
as the reckless vices of the other. It is so 
like you! I could love and forgive him, but 
should shrink with abhorrence from the 
other. 

Of your religious reflections, anon. I am 
not in a controversial mood at this moment, 
and do not like to give away a vantage in a 
matter of such consequence. I have been 
rambling away on any subject which came 
uppermost, for lack of intelligence to convey. 
Who in the world is she of whom you rave 
with such frenzied passion, and of whom you 
would not have me " guess ? " Can it be 
your Jean ? If so, the indelible nature of 
an attachment which has so constantly 
outlived the first gratification of mere desire, 
is an undeniable evidence of real, pure devo- 
tion. It does you honour, as it will con- 
tribute, one day or other, to your happiness. 
I receive your " good wishes," and you well 
know, that mine as constantly attend you. 
And if there be a guardianship whereby one 
spirit is suffered to exercise its never-failing 
agency in defence of another, Sylvander, my 
soul is watching over you this night. 

Clarinda. 



January* 1783. 

The morning opens auspiciously. This is 
the first bright day which we have seen this 
week ; and it is the first morning also, on 
which my poor child awakes refreshed by 
calm and uninterrupted sleep of some hours' 
duration. I think, at last, I may promise 
myself the fulfilment of the expectation 

• This letter was evidently written on the 
day (OUowing after that in which the forego- 
insj (No. 8 1 was penned. Both of these letters 
were probably sent by the ^5ame carrier. 



which both of us have entertained for several 
days, of a silent interview between your 
window and the square. This is the third 
time I announce the intended visit. Bruce 
did not despair at the seventh. We seem to 
be peculiarly unlucky in our appointments. 
The first, second, and third, in which I pro- 
mised myself the pleasure of your company, 
were equally frustrated by trivial, or grave 
circumstances. Perhaps, however, this was 
a dispensation which should lead to a more 
unreserved communion of our most secret 
thoughts and feelings, than would have 
resulted from the formalities of society. I 
fancy we have become more thoroughly and 
mutually acquainted, than we otherwise 
should have done ; and, I trust, we have both 
of us profited in consequence. Be of good 
cheer, Sylvander ! Clarinda, will not ever 
continue to be one of those will-o'-the- 
wisps — those visionary beings which are 
doomed to elude the realization ; and, if the 
strange destiny which presides over our 
meeting, be at last propitious, this afternoon, 
at two, I will be revealed, as I am — your 
own 

Clarinda 



How was it I could not discover you, even 
in the loftiest regions of the square ? Twice 
did I return, to make the search in vain, upon 
some pretext which satisfied me sufficiently 
to warrant the inquiring gaze. It was not 
that I did not survey the topmost stories. 
Can you not give me a more definite idea of 
the whereabouts to search? Something 
seemed to say to me, that you did not 
descry me either. I am grateful for your 
kind and tender inquiries respecting my boy, 
No very decided change has taken place, nor 
can we expect it yet. It will be a long affair, 
even if he recover. And patience is a 
virtue, which, in this case, must necessarily 
be practised. 

Of the conversion of which you speak, 
Sylvander, I should like to hear more. How 
has it been effected ? And how have I partici- 
pated in its agency? If it be a real conver- 
sion, or a conversion from some of those harum 
scarum vagaries which render the unbridled 
son of fancy the sport of his own whim ; — the 
latter even were something ; but if it be 
conversion on subjects of yet higher conse- 
quence, how shall I glory to have effected it ! 

But why the wild frenzy of passion with 
which you assail me ? It boots little to level 



TO BURNS. 



653 



imprecations at tics, and laws, and fashions. 
For what if they were not ? Think you 
'twould be conducive to the substantial hap- 
piness of Clarinda? I am at a loss to 
understand you. But, perhaps, also, 'twere 
better that you should preserve the veil of 
mystery which it may not be fit to raise from 
your rhapsody. Are you not satislied with 
the unity, the integrity of a friendship, than 
which, nothing can be more earnest, pure, 
devoted, and immutable? 

Dissolve the ties of which you complain, 
and what do either of us gain ? Some ro- 
mantic dream of Utopia ; but little or no 
reality. What have either of us to depend 
upon? 

AVhy do you not number Miss Nimmo in 
the same category as Miss Chalmers ? How 
flattered ought I not to be, to be thus asso- 
ciated and to be compared with that incom- 
parably admirable woman ! I do not think, 
iimvever, you have a more firm and true 
well-wisher on earth than Miss Nimrao, who 
seems to tremble for every mis-step which 
your impetuous temperament urges you to 
take. 1 wonder now if I could possibly 
refrain from writing to you, and from laying 
bare my actual sentiments; for I write some 
records of feelings, prompted by the thought 
of you, which never leave my hands. And, 
even now, I would send you some hues which 
were suggested by observing you mixed up 
with society which was not hkely to con- 
iribute any good impressions, had 1 but your 
promise not to be annoyed for my freedom. 

I sadly fear our correspondence will dwin- 
dle away after you leave town, and when 
new objects have distracted your attention ; 
and therefore, in somewhat jealous enjoy- 
ment of my present gratification, I write on 
more profusely. Nevertheless, and although 
I feel that your marriage would be fatal to 
our intercourse, I really should be happy to 
see you well matche;! ; for I am well assured 
that you can never rest satisfied or happy, 
without some permanent object of attach- 
ment. I propose to abandon myself in my 
next epistle to one of my rambling preachings, 
and to discuss religion with you again, having 
much to observe in relation to the sentiments 
expressed iu your recent letter ; but I shall 
try to keep myself from worrying you for 
some days to come. I am off the day after 
to-morrow, with my poor boy, to Lcith, and 
should then have been overjoyed of your 
company, had you been capable of joining us. 
You lu-e a great glutton in reading ; does it 
h;ippen that Sancho's Letters have fallen in 
your way ? If not, by all means obtain a 
copy. What a beautiful piece is the epitaph 



which you enclose me ; but it suggests a 
melancholy train of thoughts, and the fore- 
dwelling on the loss of those to whom we 
are best attached, only serves to shed a 
gloom over our existence, without being pro- 
ductive of an equivalent of good results upon 
our character. Oh that I had only half your 
power of expression, and a little of that 
brilliancy and vividness which you possess t 
What could I not express I Clarinda. 



January I2th, 1788. 

Ah ! Sylvander, at last have you seen me 
divested of those imaginary perfections 
wrought up in your own fancy, and in my 
own fulness of failing. Doubtless, have you 
"weighed, and found me wanting." And I 
would fain confess that, notwithstanding the 
very pressing desire which I had to enjoy 
your society, I had, at the same time, a dread 
lest it should destroy the spell which attached 
you to me. As for myself, I do not ever 
remember to have enjoyed such transcen- 
dental gratification. Nor do I believe, 
Sylvander, that such enjoyment is reserved 
for many amongst human kind, nor for the 
few who are capable of it, very frequently. 
Why is it, then, that I have not slept ? I 
inquire of my conscience, whether I have 
done wrong, and that conscience acquits me. 
No limit of propriety or virtue have I trans- 
gressed. Still have I some indomitable 
dread, lest iu the eye of the Deity, the fine 
distinctions of my reasoning be susceptible 
of revealing something whicli might lead to 
displeasure. The idea that a friend, to whom 
I am much indebted, should not be prepared 
to concur in the propriety of my conduct, 
and the dread that you yourself, Sylvander, 
may have grown to think less well of me — 
all these things continue to agitate my 
thoughts. 

Enough of myself. Can you tell on the 
ground of what predestined privilege those 
of birth and rank, that is of genealogical 
distmction, who possess no other merit, 
assume so much ? I cannot admit any 
reverence for rank or lineage in itself. I can 
even admire personal beauty, to the extent 
of giving it some degree of precedence ; I 
can yield admiration and superiority to 
genius or to virtife ; but to mere high birth 
— no ! And how is it tliat, amongst my 
acquaintance, I ouly, with the exception of 



651 



LETTERS OF CLARINDA 



Mary,* entertain this seemingly heterodox 
notion. I must relate you an anecdote, to 
which all this is a-propos. On Sunday last, 
between church liours, I spent my time with 
an acquaintance, upon ■whom, also, a sister 
of my Lord Napier happened to call at the 
same time. I knew the lady well by sight, 
but was so disgusted with her obtrusive 
manner, her impertinent interruptions, and 
her coarseness, and, at the same time, with 
the despicable adulation wliich the lady of 
the house offered her, that I was even more 
reserved towards her than I otherwise should 
have been. At all events, I should not have 
been inclined to bestow any particular mark 
of attention upon her ; and, as it was, she 
repelled even the ordinary courtesy with 
which, ivith others, I should naturally have 
treated her. 

By the way, I was just now mentioning 
Mary ; I think of spending a day with her 
soon, if I feel a little more fit for society ; 
I daily grow to like her better, and the 
undisguised admiration which she expresses 
when your name is mentioned, is an addi- 
tional link of attachment between us. 
Wherefore do you vainly trust to pillar your 
religion in a good life ? What you call 
" reliffion of the bosom," is, in my estimation, 
also the only religion. But pardon me, 
Sylvander, if I intimate that yours, according 
to your own showing, is more a religion of 
the head than a "religion of the bosom." 
What avails your imagined good life, unless 
you place your full reliance for its acceptation 
upon the redemption, effected at a terrible 
sacrifice, by the Son of God. The best of 
men commits innumerable sins ; the best of 
lives, in the eyes of a Being all pure, all 
innocent, must be polluted by countless 
stains ; and do you vaiidy hope that you, 
with an excess of passion and sensibility, 
will be capable of effecting what the sternest 
philosophers have failed to do ? I want to 
impress upon you the religion of the Gospel, 
which is the only real " religion of the 
bosom." On all points of general morality 
we are, doubtless, agreed. But how can we 
be otherwise ? these will not bear two inter- 
pretations. But look to it, search through 
the philosophy of the ancients, with all its 
classical beauty, with all its refinement, with 
all its subtlety, and with as perfect a moral 
code as any other extant, and tell me, if it be 
not barren and unsatisfactory at best ? Do 
you reallj% Sylvander, discern the celestial 
consolation in the lives and deaths of Socrates 

* Miss Peacock, who subsequently married 
Mr. James Gray, of the lligli School, Edlu- 
burgh. 



or Cato ? No, no ! some important bond 
was wanting, and that was only supplied in 
the revelation of Christianity. But I must 
leave the subject now ! I will take it up 
again from time to time. But now I am 
weary, and have wearied you. Farewell. 
Clarinda. 



[Reply to Letter No. 87, pp. 304, 305.j 
Janiumj \1th, 1788. 

I AM not a little surprised at your warm 
defence of Miss Napier; and I understand 
she has merits such as you describe. Most 
persons are pleased with her, and, perhaps, 
she was to be excused for not attributing as 
much importance to Clarinda, as her own 
friends would have done. Yet there is a 
general evidence of good breeding which she 
certainly failed to exhibit on this occasion. 
Her face is not ill-looking, but her figure 
and carriage are awkward. 

As to your Epigram on Elphinstone, it is 
exquisite and well merited ; — a more arrant 
pedant one seldom meets with. Can I have 
the pleasure of your company this evening, 
or, if you like it better, to-morrow evening, 
either at tea or about eight o'clock. I should 
much like to see you ; but I should prefer 
your coming on foot, even if you should be 
obliged to order a chair to take you back, 
for you well know what a quiet, humble set 
of people we are about here, and how great 
a disturbance is likely to be created, by the 
appearance of equipages in a quarter such 
as ours. 

You have a magical influence over me ; 
you seem to possess every secret clue to my 
most secret inclinations, thoughts, or 
impulses ; and if it be possible for letters to 
utter all one's most tender and unspeakable 
sentiments, they are yours. But whence, 
then, can be the charm which you attach to 
mine? Do you really, truly take pleasure 
in these wretcVied scrawls, or is it merely 
a self-deception, of some peculiar partiality, 
which you do not attempt to control, which 
deceives you into a belief of gratification ? 
Wherefore do you doubt the " lasting im- 
pression " which you have made ? You who 
possess the unreserved access to my innermost 
thoughts. 

Do not forget to write me word when you 
will come and spend the evening with me ; 
and on that occasion, whenever it be, be 



TO T3URJfS. 



555 



careful how yoii tamper with the lock of 
secrets which you have at your command, in 
your ClakIiNDA. 



IReply to Letters Kos. 89 and 90. pp, 303.* 

30(i.] 

Thursday, January, T7S3. 

I CANNOT help shuddering', when I find 
myself, for an instant, sutfering the least in- 
fraction of the strictest rules of propriety. 
I shrink from myself at the thought of pos- 
sible transgressions. 

For these reasons, I am depressed and 
uneasy to-day; everything about me appears 
gloomy, and sad, and reproachful. 1 feel a 
sort of dark and ill-defined remorse for what 
transpired last ni<;ht, and I would conjure 
you not to suffer we in future — not to expose 
me to the temptation of doing ought that 
may not preserve the dignity and delicacy of 
our intercourse. Otherwise, we shall destroy 
the most irrefragable bond of union, which 
should have perpetuated our intercourse. Yet 
we shall have to part one of these days, and, 
painful as that parting would be of itself, 
liow much more so, would it not bo made, 
did any intervening follies tend to depreciate 
the mutual esteem, and thus to damp the 
more distant colloquy which we should other- 
wise maintain. How I dread, Sylvander, to 
be lowered in your estimation! And how 
my heart recoils from any act or thouijht 
which I dare not entertain in the abstraction 
of my daily devotion ! 

I have told you how wretched love has 
made nie, and is doomed to make me. Let 
me then abstain from indulging in the 
fatal passion to which the ardent tempera- 
ment which I possess, so peculiarly exposes 
me. 

I can picture to myself the delight of 
reading your letters, when the bitter parting 
is once well over, and distance between lis 
has mellowed down the excessive ardour of 
passion, which now impels me at times to do, 
or own that which may degrade me in your 
estimation. 

Oh, why do I not hear from you to-day ? 
Why do 1 receive no more of those sponta- 
neous outpourings of a soul which, in its 

• Probably Thursday, January 24th. This 
date has actually been assiifneil to a letter 
written by Clarinda to I?uri;s, of which the 
purport is very analogous. 

48 



elevation, seems to waft us nearer to the 
sublime expanse of eternity and immortality? 
I dare not trust myself to see you on Satur- 
day, luiless the flutter of my feelings be 
lowered to the compass of my own control ; 
and then, I believe, an interview, maintained 
with proper reserve, that is, in preserving 
the strictest rules of conduct which I have 
from the first prescribed for us, would much 
conduce to restore my disturbed peace of 
mind. Farewell. Clarinda. 



Tuesday Evening, January 2dth, 17S3. 

My very Dear Sylvander — If ray ap- 
preciation of your sincerity of interest in the 
real welfare of your Clarinda had needed any 
confirmation from you, your noble conduct, 
in our interview of Saturday night, would 
have satisfied the most tender scruples. And 
if we did allow ourselves to infringe some of 
those stern barriers which retain the corres- 
pondence between ardent persons of different 
sexes within the sphere of arctic frigidity, 
I do not feel myself conscious of wroi\g. 
doing, and the retrospect calls no blush to 
my cheek, nor disquiet to my heart. But we 
must assert a redoubled caution and obser- 
vation on our very thoughts, lest we admit 
the least ascendancy of temptation over the 
purest dictates of virtue. Oh, if there be 
spirits — which we would fain believe in for 
our consolation — whose kindly office is to 
preserve us from the first insidious advent of 
evil, may they guard, watch, and protect 
each of us ! 

Sylvander, I have no power to reserve my 
feelings towards those whose sympathies are 
so wound up with mine. Must I then con- 
fess the love which I have so long struggled 
to suppress ? Yes ! and shouhi not tiiis 
awaken me more keenly to a sense of 
danger ? Yet can you tell me, Sylviiuder, 
why this confession should in my heart ba 
associated with an idea of wrong ? 

Is it not that I feel myself irrevocably 
bound to another, who has forfeited all claim 
to the love which is thus left desolate? 

I will not complain of my doom. No • 
nor will I pain my Sylvander, by dwelling 
upon a condition which neither he nor I can 
dissolve. 

But I have unbosomed myself to my best 
of advisers and pastors, Mr. Kemp * to 

• The Minister of Tolbook Church, Edin- 
bargh. 



6.56 



LETTERS OF CLARINDA 



wliom I am in the habit of conimunicatinff 
my perplexities, and I feel as if a load had 
been lifted from my oppressed and bursting 
heart. 

Ah ! Sylvander, if you and Mr. Kemp 
were known to each other, would not a 
rrciprocal esteem sprins^ up between you. 
Yon could not help adinirin;^ his sterling 
piety, his judgment, and his benevolence, as 
well as his talents ; whilst he would be 
enchanted with that fresh and glowing 
imagination, that exquisite sensibility, and 
that intuitive benevolence of character, 
which distinguish you above all the weak- 
nesses whieh sometimes betray themselves 
in your conduct. 

I do not know why it is so, but I cannot 
help feelmg some secret satisfaction that 
your Excise project has not succeeded. I do 
not mean to intimate that I would rather 
see you pursuing your present indefinite 
career, than firmly settled in some desirable, 
profitable, and competent occupation. But, 
Sylvander, if you have a weakness above 
any other, which is likely to lead you to 
mischief, if not to ruin, it is a love of con- 
viviality, which, in the capital, might seduce 
you from the direct career of honour and 
respectability, and I shudder at the thought 
of your being despised by the worldlings of 
a town, in which wits and scholars, noblemen, 
and burgesses, have all bowed down and 
worshipped you. I should burst with 
anguish at the triumph of malicious envy 
over your fall. If I have two things at 
heart more earnestly than any others in this 
■world, they are to impress you with my own 
ideas and fervour in religion, and to see you 
provided with some calling which should 
occupy your time and talents in such a 
manner, as to maintain yoa honourably in the 
highest social position which the sapremacy of 
your f/enius has atchieved. 

I fear that, in being revealed to those to 
whom you have vaimted the "divinity "of 
Clarinda," she falls sadly from the misty 
elevation of her glory. You forget, ray dear 
Sylvander, that all do not see with your 
eyes, hear with your ears, or feel with your 
sensibilities ; and, therefore, amongst others I 
dread the judgment of Mr. Ainslie on my 
account. I really fancy he must have smiled 
in pity for what he may have looked upon as 
your hallucination. 

I dread the visit of Mr. to morrow. 

He is evidently uneasy for me, and ventures 
only upon those oblique inuendoes which are 
intended to elicit an explanation from me. 
I cannot conceal from you, nevertheless, that 
your society is all in all to me ; but had we 



not better — or rather had I not better — exer- 
cise a little self-denial ? Do you think it 
prudent, now the jealous vigilance of some 
of these Argus-eyed, and suspicious people 
of the world is awakened, to attract more 
marked attention ? Will you, under these 
circumstances come the day after to-raovrow, 
or had we not better meet more rarely? 
No ! I have not resolution to force the 
separation. Come unless I warn you be- 
tween this and then, and may the spirits 
I have invoked preserve the innocence of 
your Clarinda. 



Fehrnary, 1788. 

On ! were I free — free to dispose of those 
fond ties which bind us in mysterious sym- 
pathies, how should I not reply to your 
charming letter! I only dread myself when 
I think how nearly I may be prompted by 
feelings, which, I believe, in themselves to be 
innocent, to do, or eveu to think, that, which 
the calmer reflections would pronounce as 
verging on guilt. 

What boots it that we have congenial 
communion? fur all which should consecrate 
that communion is due to another from me, 
although his claim be founded rather upon 
conventionality than upon merit. If I bring 
myself to reflect more impartially on my re- 
lations, I cannot conceal from myself the 
serious consideration that, however he may 
have forfeited, by wrong, all those tender 
ties by which we are bound, although his 
acts shall not have been in keeping with his 
most sacred promises, such dereliction on 
his part can never dissolve the bond by which 
we are united, or exonerate me, should I be 
tempted to return a wrong for wrong. No, 
no ! The most elevated sentiments of regard, 
sympathy, appreciation, nay, even attach- 
ment, as far as they fail to infringe the 
promises by which I am bound, are mine to 
bestow, and you have possessed them, and do 
possess them ; but so much as verges into 
more tender and less qualitiable affection is 
an unclaimed overflow of feeling— it is true 
— but unclaimed as it is, it belongs to the 
Giver of life, and to him it must be devoted 
as a free-will offering. I give you my best 
and indelible friendship; but, Sylvander, you 
must not dare to ask for more, lest by 
tempting me to entertain a thought which 
conscience cannot calmly confirm, you sacri- 
fice the substautial happiness of life to 



TO BURNS. 



55? 



li.e frantic dream of bliss which shall illu- 
mine an instant alone. 

Why are you not satisfied ? Why should 
not the elicitation of such a declaration from 
me, be sufficient to gratify your most ardent 
wishes ? 

I know, and feel too well, too keenly, that 
the union which has fettered me, is one 
which was as unworthy of my heart, as it 
was incapable of satisfyino; the redundancy 
of eager sensibilities of which I am made up ; 
that your heart was capable of havinj; ful- 
filled the most ample conceptions of mortal 
happiness for me ; that no two souls were 
ever so matched for the most complete 
identity of thoughts, feelings, hopes, fears, 
and atfections; and that as we are hopelessly 
separated by a barrier wliich neitlier of us 
should dare to transgress, I, at least, can 
never be happy in tliis world, although by 
subduing the swelling passions which some- 
times threaten to rise in rebeUion against 
my better feelings, I may retain a partial 
peace of mind, which otherwise I should for 
ever forfeit. 

How strangely have onr sensibilities been 
coincident ! I have been pondering over 
your own account of yourself, that is, of 
your early years, as you ingenuously revealed 
It to Dr. Moore. Amongst all your early 
predilections, whether in art, literature, or 
tue admiration of nature, there is barely 
one which was not also mine ! I have loved 
the same poems ; I have culled the same 
flowers ; and seen the same incomparable 
symmetry in the landscape or the firmament. 

Yet withal, you see, Sylvander, there is an 
over-ruling doom, an everlasting predestina- 
tion, which has forbidden more than the 
recognition of these sympathies of soul — and 
we must be separated. 

You will leave the capital, and retire into 
the homely retreat of a peasant once more, 
whence I can only hear of you by letter, 
vUiiher my heart will follow you, but where, 
probably, new ties will encircle themselves 
about you, and engross the little share which 
I possessed in your recollection. Possibly I 
shall not hear from you ; and the next time 
we meet — the next time! — it will beforeternal 
communion, where none can part us, and no 
sinister power will be present to impede the 
interchange of sympathies which must draw 
us together. 

How I dread the day of parting which is 
drawing near ! I feel as if it would be the 
last ou earth — as if we should uot meet again 
in this world ; and I shudder at it. Could 
you not creep stealthily away, and spare me 
that moment of anguish? Yet no! I coidd 



not bear to think that you had shunned me. 
You will 7iot forget me. There will surely 
be something in the daily aspect of every- 
thing about you, which will remind you of 
Clarinda! 

Oh God! is to-morrow — to-morrow that 
last day on which we shall meet. — You will 
come — you will not desert me without one 
last meeting. Early in the day I will do as 
you wish, and will give Miers* a sitting. 
Remember this shall be the bond of eternal 
friendship between us — yes, friendship : — do 
not think, breathe, or utter, a more tender 
attachment. I do not feel that I should be 
attended in sitting for the portrait. I should 
have been glad of Mary's company, because 
she understands me thoroughly ; but she is 
in the country; and the only other person 
whom I could ask to accompany me is Miss 
Nimmo; and in this matter there is a je ne 
s^ais quoi which forbids me. 

How could you rend me with that parting 
song ! It is too much. Even you could 
scarcely have equalled the touching appeal 
more than once. I burst into tears. Can 
you doubt that I will be your friend to 
eternity ? Ah ! that " / mn]) reca'." W^iuld 
it were not so ! And yet why ? Should I 
not have lived without having felt the 
divinest sympathies of humanity, and would 
not the deepest spring of feeling have beeo 
unsounded. 

Oh ! Sylvander, how deeply do I regret 
that I had not known you, before you pro- 
claimed yourself the adversary of our creed 
in the biting satires with which you have 
assailed it. If the lines ou Religion which 
you now send me in that dear letter had 
been of earlier production, I should have 
been yet doubly happy in you. Would I not 
have implored eternal silence and forgetful- 
ness for the " Twa Herds," and the " Holy 
Fair." I had rather admire you for goodness 
than for wit ; and your genius might accom- 
plish as much/or true religion as a thousand 
preachers, even as it may deal a fatal blow if 
levelled against it. 

I wish you would come and hear Mr. 
Kemp's preaching, ou Sunday next; and I 
am convinced that with all the rhetorical 
skill and flowery dictiou of Mr. Gould, whom 
you so warmly admire, and whom I have 
heard, you could not fail to admit that .Mr. 
Kemp's elocution, tbou:;h more simple, is 
more impressive ; that it carries with it a 
stronger impression of earnest conviction ; 
and that whereas Mr. Gould addresses hira- 

• Mr. Miers was the miniature painter at 
Ediubur^n, by whom Burns wished tc havp 
Mrs. McLchose's portrait executed. 



5i^ 



LEl'TKUS OF CLARINDA 



self to the mind, Mr. Kemp speaks to the 
heart, and in a lan<;ua^'e to: which the 
heart can readily interpret. 

You know how earnestly I have striven 
for your conversion to more serious thoughts 
on relig'ion ; you know how 1 have endea- 
voured to wean you from the indefinite 
reliance on a vague and unsatisfactory 
philosophy, which coldly sneers atthemoie 
earnest zeal of religious fervour. I have 
done something ; but how feeble a preacher 
am 1 1 And I feel that you could not hear 
Mr. Kemp, without gaining in peace what 
you would inevitably obtain in conviction. 
Let me entreat you to hear him. 

Sylvander, I do not know why it is I can 
unburden myself to you with a degree of 
freedom which my heart shrinks from ex- 
tending to any other living. Let me ask 
your advice. You well know who it is 
alone who really possesses any community 
of thought and sympathy with me. You 
must have discovered that no degree of kind- 
ness without this thorough interchange of 
mysterious sympathy would win me beyond 
a grateful — very grateful — but reserved 
respect. Well, some time since, when, as 
you have heard, I came to Edinburgh friend- 
less and unknown, one warm, faithful, earnest 
friend attached himself to my cause, aided 
and defended me. I need not tell you who 
this was : suffice it that such was the case. I 
was not slow to observe, guarded and reserved 
as was his respectful attention, that with him 
a warmer, closer, and more secret attachment 
was growing and being nourished within 
him. I do not think he knew or was willing 
to know this for some length of time ; but I 
believe he is no longer a stranger to his own 
feelings. At one time 1 do not hesitate to 
own tUat the tender, delicate attentions 
which I received at his hands, combined 
with an overflow of grateful regard for his 
generous and profitless aid, had, in some 
degree, conveyed a degree of tenderness to 
my own regard for him. But withal, there 
was no deep interchange of sympathies, and 
one (you well know who), meanwhile, had 
quickly weaned me from this momentary 
surrender, by enforcing an absolute and irre- 
sistable surrender to his own mysterious 
power and control over all my most secret 
impulses. But with my sturdy friend it 
was otherwise ; — his secret passion continued 
to grow, and to this day feeds upon pros- 
pective hopes, which cannot, alas ! ever now 
be realised. 

What can I do? How can I proceed, to 
spare so generous a friend a pang, which, 
oue day or other, I ihall be condemned to 



inflict upon him? Shall I unreservedly own 
my preference for Sylvander ? Yet there is, 
perhaps, equal danger to our mutual peace 
of mind in this. I cannot, nevertheless, bear 
to practice a tacit deception; I cannot di.'- 
semble an attachment which I do not feel, 
and I shudder at the thought of allowing a 
secret passion, so strong, so earnest, and so 
apparently resistless, to bs fostered until 
years shall have indomitably confirmed it. 



The thought of that parting, wh.ich is so 
soon to take place between \is ; of the 
distance v.hich is to interpose itself, and of 
the new associations which wiH gradually 
wean away your heart from me — all this will 
return to my mind. I have been endeavour- 
ing to chase the reflection from me, but in 
vain. A few brief hours hence ! I cannot 
brar it ! May Heaven pour upon you, as 
fully as it is implored, the blessing of 

Clarinda. 



Thursday, Feb. 2lst, 1788. 

My Dear Sylvander — Like yourself, 
Clarinda feels with everyone, and for every- 
one. Is it not a strange, yet glorious, 
privilege which the heart possesses, to 
expand beyond the narrow limits of our cell 
of clay, to participate in the emotions of 
other beings of kindred texture? It cannot 
have escaped any one of enlarged capacities 
for passion or intelligence, much less such 
capacities as you possess for both, that the 
vitality comprised within the compass of 
one body is inadequate to its yearnings. 
Hence, I imagine, solitude — that is, perfect 
solitude, is impossible — and society, whether 
actual or imaginary, must be created. 

But there is a higher vocation for this 
necessity of sympathies ; a gospel mission, 
which is designed to contribute to the well- 
being of mankind. Did not our Saviour 
preach that doctrine of sympathies? 

It is, perhaps, in this sacred acceptation, 
that sorrow and joy are equally conducive to 
the perfection of some Divine purpose, and 
that there is a holy pleasure, which I can 
barely express, but most intensely feel, "to 
weep with those who weep, and be glad with 
those who rejoice" But, wherefore the 
seeiniiig contradiction which, whilst my 
greatest desire is to distribute blessings to 
mankind, seems to withhold the means o/ 
couliibuting, eveu the smallest share, to 



TO BUIINS. 



659 



«nch blessings, even if it does not condemn 
me unwittingly, and without design, to 
•.nfli«".t suffering. "Why have I not means to 
place yon above the reach of the contemptible 
malice, which springs from the envy of those 
who cannot match you, and glories in the 
affected superiorities of rank and fortune. 

If anything could have raaile me regard 
the adventitious vantage of circumstances 
with less esteem than I was naturally inclined 
to do, it is the comparison which vulgar 
minds would draw between the splendour of 
wealth, and the glory of virtuous genius, to 
the disparagement of the latter. It is this, 
perhaps, which has more deeply impressed 
Goldsmith's immortal lines upou my mind 
of late : — 

'' In nature's simplest habits clad. 
Nor wealth nor power had he ; 
Genius and worth were all he had. 
But these were aU to me." 

They are ceaselessly ringing in my ears. 

I love Miss Chalmers for her attachment 
to you. But here, again, the sad contradic- 
tion, that those who most appreciate your 
uoble character, and incomparable talent, 
thould be least able to place you in a posi- 



tion wliich should for ever free you from 
dependence upou the mean-spirited world. 
I never before sighed for the advantages of 
circumstance. I do not ever recollect to 
have wished for wealth or grandeur ; but at 
this moment, what would I not give up for 
the means of raising Sylvander to that lofty 
position, to which his matchless worth 
entitles him. 

Yet I could almost quarrel with Mary, 
for her ardent admiration of him, even 
whilst I love her the better for it. Her 
guileless and unreserved expression of almost 
adoration, have recurred to me an luindred 
times through a wakeful night ; and, although 
I well know that she herself is not conscious 
of transgressing the rights which have been 
asserted by Clarinda, 1 cannot help dreading 
such passionate admiration. She has been 
gratified to-day with the appreciation of 
Mrs. Cockburn's refined and acknowledged 
taste, and the praise of her " Henry," by 
the authoress of " I've seen the smiling of 
fortune's beguiling," has made her as com- 
pletely happy as she appeared to have been 
last night, with the couverse of my Sylvander 
— if such may be the assumed claim of yma 

own CliA&ItiiDA. 



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